Funerals are weird.
First there was the viewing, and what a mind trip that was. Everything smelled strange and a little off, and you have to stand really still while people walk up to you, pretending like they know you. Everyone, and I mean everyone, tries to hug you. I think half the time the hugger was mixing me up with Seeley, and the rest of the time I guess they didn’t care. I went along with it either way, because it seemed like the right thing to do. Eventually my dad showed up, and it was such a relief to see him that I pretty much collapsed into him.
Next came the service. I sat with Seeley and her family on one side, and my dad on the other. I tried to remember all the appropriate times to say “and also with you” and stuff like that, and when to kneel and when to stand, and half the time I got it wrong. And Seeley was right next to me, but she might as well have been a million miles away.
After that was the gathering. This basically meant that everyone went back to Seeley’s house and ate sandwiches. When they left, Seeley’s mom did the dishes alone, even though I offered to help.
I heard her crying twice.
So that’s what funerals are like. They hurt.
I used to sometimes think it would be better if my mom was dead, like if she’d been taken away from us instead of leaving by her own choice. But no, I was wrong. After today, I know I was wrong. Leaving is better. Leaving is definitely better.
Which is exactly why I’m sobbing into a pile of postcards when my dad comes upstairs to tuck me in. He scoops me up and carries me into bed, like he did when I was little, and I watch him clean up the mess through heavy-lidded eyes. He shoves one into his pocket as he heads out the door, and I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing. The tears come again, but this time, I’m careful and I’m quiet and I don’t bother anybody.