The sound of a funeral is much more morbid than the sight.
All the black, flowers, and tears is enough to break most, but you do not truly know a funeral until you close your eyes and listen. First you hear the whispers, then the sound of snuffling and sniffing, followed by a stifled sigh. But the worst is the words unspoken, hanging in the air above us like a guillotine.
This is how you funeral is. Dad, miles and I sit here on the benches, eyes on the preacher as if he was an exciting movie instead of an old guy reading words that washes over me. Yes, we told Miles. He is seven years old, and dad and I thought he deserved to know the truth. I hold his trembling hand, and he constantly blinks to hold back the tears. It’s not working. He is seven, only seven, and already his life has been wrought with grief.
Strangely, my own eyes feel bone dry. Almost like the feeling when you swim in the pool for a while, and then sleep without showering and you can barely move your face the next morning. Isn’t it strange how I cried harder when I broke up with my first boyfriend than at your funeral? I guess the difference is, last time you were holding me and crying too. Now, we are separated by the grief in the air and the hunk of wood you lie in.
I’m pretty sure you would be crying if you could see the expression on Miles face. Look at him. Take a good hard look at your son, who you left behind. He is never going to dance with you at his wedding, never going to hear you call his girlfriend beautiful. But just listen to me. Here I am, accusing you at your funeral. Inventive, huh? You always said I was an idealist.
The preacher continues to prattle on, naming off your various accomplishments. I wonder why they always read a person’s accomplishments. You can never know a person from that. These people sitting with us, they could never know how you were, what you were like from your accomplishments. I remember when we would lay side-by-side and try to guess how many Oreos it took to get to the moon, then taking the number and saying “That’s how much I love you.” Oh, how I would giggle with a young girls joy at a new game.
I try to remember the other memories, but I can’t seem to get past the pain. Instead of the crusty preacher, I can still hear the screech and sickly sound of their car hitting ours. It’s like the sound of the branch your standing on breaking, or the teacher calling your name when you were in la-la land with Brad Pitt. It causes that same, gut wrenching feeling.
When I exploded out of the darkness, the first thing I noticed was the pain. The second thing I noticed was you. I remember I thought you looked like a butterfly with torn wings, sitting broken beside me. I lifted a shaking hand, and glass fell like raindrops as I moved your hair from your face. I could tell from your eyes that little of you remained in this world. I said your name, and watched as your misty eyes focused on me. Your lips formed my name, like a wordless cry of destiny. And then you were gone. And it wasn’t like in movies or stories when the life just fades away, like some sweet carriage carrying you to paradise. One minute you were there and the next you were gone, like a candle blown out.
Now those same eyes stared at me from a dozen pictures, but there was something missing. There was no warmth, no love in these eyes that stared at me. They looked just like when you were snuffed out. I…I never realized how that warmth in your eyes was a tremendous part of you, how even when I flushed your thong down the toilet or drew stick people on your walls that love was still there. The flat eyed person in the photos may as well be a stranger. I’m glad they are not making me stand in front of everyone and say mushy and pre-acted stuff about you. Would it really matter if I did? We all have our own opinions of you; all I would be doing is sharing mine. Even if I did sand in front of all the sober faces, I only have one thing left to say to you;

So how many Oreos, mom?