Jenn and Michelle fight just before the viewing so only Jenn shows up and I hate them both for being so fucking petty. My adoptive parents have a trip planned that weekend, so my mom comes to the viewing but not the funeral, and I hate that there are only ten people there, that there is no gravestone. My boyfriend of four years escorts me, watches me be a good daughter, and I hate him too, because I know I don’ t love him. He comes back to my parents’ house and tries to comfort me, but I send him away because it seems so cheap. I have to sign my name with her rapist husband’ s last name, because my entire family is ashamed that she gave me away to a woman who loved me better, and I hate that no one sees how brave she was.
Years from now, I’ ll accompany a different boyfriend to his best friend’ s father’ s funeral. I’ ll dress in black instead of grey, and walk with him from the church to his friend’ s house. There, I’ ll be stunned by the sheer amount of mourners— family and bar friends and work friends and neighbors. So many people that, despite it being early December, we have to prop the door open, and let the frigid night air waft in. With a guitar, a brother will lead a small group in singing Neil Young songs, the deceased’ s favorites, and street light will illuminate their sad-smiling faces. Stories will be told in the dining room, laughter will ring in the kitchen. Homemade Bailey’ s will be brought out, and a shot given to every mourner— some in proper shot glasses, others in the bottoms of drinking glasses and measuring cups. I’ ll raise a shot glass with the Tasmanian Devil on it and shout“ To Neil!” with the crowd. As the fire runs down my throat, I’ ll be struck by the fury of their mourning, like the screams of a thriving newborn compared to the stony silence of a child born dead.
~
I do have a favorite memory of her that I might have told at a raucous party in her honor. I was probably supposed to be in bed, but like always, I wasn’ t doing what I was told. I crept down the steps and she had the old wooden record player going, Billy Joel spinning furiously on deck. She and Gary were pressed together, cheek to cheek, dancing the way older people do with one hand on his shoulder and the other clasped in his.“ Uptown Girl” seemed to play all night, and they spun around and around the living room. She kept tipping her head back and laughing, but she never broke away from him, and his arm stayed firm around her waist. I was so sleepy, but I couldn’ t walk away— it was the only time I’ d seen her look so happy, so alive. I wondered then, like I wonder now, if it was him she loved or just the feeling itself.
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