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"He's there. All that's mortal of him."
Been realizing lately that the last thought I've had before I've gone to bed has been about death. Not so much an obsession with wanting to know when or how mine will come, but the fact that it will come. Sometimes that fixed worry leaves me and attaches itself to the death of others. I'm not depressed about it necessarily, I'm just sort of in awe of its inevitability. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I cant go in any direction in my community without having to maneuver around some cemetery or another.
Here's a piece I wrote a couple months back about the only funeral I ever attended.
--------------------
:Laugh If You Want
I didn’t want to go to the funeral. I was old enough to avoid most of the things I had to do with my family that I couldn’t get away from when I was a child. Church, a brother’s birthday party. My father, who my mother eventually gave up trying to coax into things, was sitting in his room, praying. He sat there on the bed, his hair slicked back and shiny as his black shoes, with the arc of his body coming down to his two hands. The generations his life was bridging were visible in the cracks of his face and the tightness of his clothes. I was always surprised at my dad’s carefree attitude towards his attire. He wore white to the bakery in which he worked, and anything he could find that fit him for any time else. But for this occasion, he’d dug up an outfit from the closet that looked as nice as what I would have though he would have wore to a first date with my mom.
By this point, I had already moved beyond the phase of my teenage years where I let my appearance reflect the person I thought I was and began the healthy transition into a lifelong repression of my feelings. I didn’t own any black shirts. And since none of the ones my brother doused with cologne fit me, I went with the classiest thing in my closet, a dirty white dress shirt that was only a shade lighter than a common band-aid. The shirt was too tight for me, but went well with the tight dress shoes I never used.
This was the first and only time I’d ever been in a limousine. I almost forgot.
The ceremony went as well as any could have, so to speak. The turn up towards the burial site, I was surprised by the serene quality of our surroundings. The wind was only slightly present, bending the palms one way and then losing itself in the freeways that surrounded the cemetery. There was a perfect rectangle dug in front of a white awning where black chairs were lined on two sides. I remember looking at my hands, feeling their moisture, and sweating a lot. To see what his reaction would be, I turned towards my brother. On most occasions where we had to be serious, he and I would punch each other and hold back laughter, like two friends keeping an embarrassing secret from a third. But he wouldn’t return my gaze. My mother, whose grief for her brother was so foreign to me, sat next to my sister. Her face was red, but tears weren’t coming out. At times, I sensed she was closer than ever to showing us the same grief we’d always faked for things we thought we couldn’t live without. Toys, shoes worth the price of three steak dinners. But she held back. Though it wouldn’t have been held against her, I was hoping she would keep herself together. The more I saw her struggle with her loss, the less she looked like the one person I thought would never change.
At the family get together afterwards, the cousins all talked about what they always talked about. School, video games, the food. No one made any mention my shirt, but this could have been because they were so busy looking at themselves. My cousins from Mexico were sporting black boots, black cowboy hats, and belts with buckles as shiny as wedding rings. We’d only seen each other twice in the last four years, but I was still a little surprised that they were all married and had at least one child. Their wives even looked the same. We had a great time, though, playing fooseball in the back yard while we drank soda and kept away from my crazy aunt’s cooking.
Inside, my mother and my grandmother sat in the dimness of my late uncle’s living room. There were pictures of him blown up to the size of canvas portraits. They were so overexposed I felt I was violating his privacy just by looking at them. I’d never known him, and only heard him mentioned when my mother talked to her sister on the phone. My mother asked my grandmother if she wanted anything to drink, though I think she was looking for a reason to get up. Staring at those pictures, I wanted to tell him I was sorry for not being sad, that the only thing getting me through forced gathering was beating my cousins at a game in which no one was keeping score. Sorry, too, because I couldn’t find the right words, say them in Spanish, and mean them. And my shirt, I would have told him, I know it’s stupid, but you can laugh if you want.
Here's a piece I wrote a couple months back about the only funeral I ever attended.
--------------------
:Laugh If You Want
I didn’t want to go to the funeral. I was old enough to avoid most of the things I had to do with my family that I couldn’t get away from when I was a child. Church, a brother’s birthday party. My father, who my mother eventually gave up trying to coax into things, was sitting in his room, praying. He sat there on the bed, his hair slicked back and shiny as his black shoes, with the arc of his body coming down to his two hands. The generations his life was bridging were visible in the cracks of his face and the tightness of his clothes. I was always surprised at my dad’s carefree attitude towards his attire. He wore white to the bakery in which he worked, and anything he could find that fit him for any time else. But for this occasion, he’d dug up an outfit from the closet that looked as nice as what I would have though he would have wore to a first date with my mom.
By this point, I had already moved beyond the phase of my teenage years where I let my appearance reflect the person I thought I was and began the healthy transition into a lifelong repression of my feelings. I didn’t own any black shirts. And since none of the ones my brother doused with cologne fit me, I went with the classiest thing in my closet, a dirty white dress shirt that was only a shade lighter than a common band-aid. The shirt was too tight for me, but went well with the tight dress shoes I never used.
This was the first and only time I’d ever been in a limousine. I almost forgot.
The ceremony went as well as any could have, so to speak. The turn up towards the burial site, I was surprised by the serene quality of our surroundings. The wind was only slightly present, bending the palms one way and then losing itself in the freeways that surrounded the cemetery. There was a perfect rectangle dug in front of a white awning where black chairs were lined on two sides. I remember looking at my hands, feeling their moisture, and sweating a lot. To see what his reaction would be, I turned towards my brother. On most occasions where we had to be serious, he and I would punch each other and hold back laughter, like two friends keeping an embarrassing secret from a third. But he wouldn’t return my gaze. My mother, whose grief for her brother was so foreign to me, sat next to my sister. Her face was red, but tears weren’t coming out. At times, I sensed she was closer than ever to showing us the same grief we’d always faked for things we thought we couldn’t live without. Toys, shoes worth the price of three steak dinners. But she held back. Though it wouldn’t have been held against her, I was hoping she would keep herself together. The more I saw her struggle with her loss, the less she looked like the one person I thought would never change.
At the family get together afterwards, the cousins all talked about what they always talked about. School, video games, the food. No one made any mention my shirt, but this could have been because they were so busy looking at themselves. My cousins from Mexico were sporting black boots, black cowboy hats, and belts with buckles as shiny as wedding rings. We’d only seen each other twice in the last four years, but I was still a little surprised that they were all married and had at least one child. Their wives even looked the same. We had a great time, though, playing fooseball in the back yard while we drank soda and kept away from my crazy aunt’s cooking.
Inside, my mother and my grandmother sat in the dimness of my late uncle’s living room. There were pictures of him blown up to the size of canvas portraits. They were so overexposed I felt I was violating his privacy just by looking at them. I’d never known him, and only heard him mentioned when my mother talked to her sister on the phone. My mother asked my grandmother if she wanted anything to drink, though I think she was looking for a reason to get up. Staring at those pictures, I wanted to tell him I was sorry for not being sad, that the only thing getting me through forced gathering was beating my cousins at a game in which no one was keeping score. Sorry, too, because I couldn’t find the right words, say them in Spanish, and mean them. And my shirt, I would have told him, I know it’s stupid, but you can laugh if you want.
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