>>stripped of natural charm

my brother and i get to the church at 9:45. my dad has saved us seats. i’m sandwhiched between my parents: stoic dad on the right, chatty mom on the left. people deal with grief in many ways. she rubs my arm more for her comfort than my own, and i let her though i would prefer not to be touched. we continue sitting as the priest prays. we all stand.

i feel it before i see it: the coffin supported by his two sons, three brothers, and son-in-law. the sight moves everyone to tears. it quickly becomes clear that i shouldn’t have wasted the time putting on eyeliner. the 7 of them move slowly down the aisle, 6 of them crying and one of them unaware that there’s anything going on. they place the coffin at the front of the church and take their seats.

it’s my first time at a funeral. i don’t know the acceptable amount of crying allowed, so i don’t at first. the priest performs a monologue about what a great guy he was, but he speaks from a distance, like someone who has been briefed five minutes before it’s time for him to speak. we sit like statues; the only clue that we’re alive at is the wetness on
our cheeks.

his oldest son stands and talks about his beloved father. i’m amazed that he does not cry. instead, he talks about his dad’s love of the florida gators (do you remember when we used to go tailgating? do you remember heckling the opposing team’s fans?), the way he kept score when he coached t-ball games (“why are you keeping score?” “because i wanna know if we won or not.” “it’s t-ball! there’s no winning in t-ball!” “there isn’t if you’re losin’”), and the green suit he always wore on st. patrick’s day. we laugh louder than we should as a way to counteract the heartache we’re in the middle of experiencing.

communion happens quickly and i think “these catholics sure are efficient in their jesus consuming” and i tell my mother. she tries not to laugh. the ceremony ends and the 7 of them are coming up the aisle. i lock eyes with his youngest son, who’s only 19 but looks at least 23. the memories pass between us quickly: playing in his pool, our dad’s coaching us on our basketball team, the numerous football games we attended, climbing the tree in front of our dads’ law office. we make eye contact for no more than 3 seconds, but that’s enough. the words pass silently between us. “hello.” hello. “i’m glad you’re here.” so am i. “thanks for coming.” i wouldn’t have missed this. “remember when….?” i really do.

we ride with my uncle to the cemetary. i say “this is the longest processional ever.” they all agree. 100 people gather in a circle around the maroon funeral home tent as the coffin is once again escorted in. more catholicism ensues. the flag is folded up and handed to his widow. she doesn’t cry, but her legs are shaking something fierce. i want to hug her.

on my hour & a half drive back to school, i listen to christian music and smoke my cigarettes and remember. i randomly start crying, not because i miss him, but because of the people and the legacy he left behind. he was more than a person: he was a presence. he is a presence.