Falling for a Memory

Friday, September 27, 2019

Dear John,

You died three nights ago.

But you know that, don't you? Are you even still "you" now? What are you? What have you become? Where have you gone?

I'm not sure why I even ask, since I know the answers. I was there today, even though I shouldn't have been. Not only was I there, but I was also only four pews away.

I arrived early. I wasn't trying to make a scene, but I didn't know where the church was, and I feared sticking out even more by stumbling in late and disheveled. However, as I crossed the large oak doors of that cavernous cathedral and stood before the stained glass windows depicting Jesus' death, I found myself weak in the knees and unable to control the trembling. The saintly figures in the stained glass watched me with their oddly deep eyes, the rain pounding against them and drenching their yellowish faces with tears. I felt them pull my secret from me. They knew I didn't deserve to be there.

I turned to make a silent escape, the rest of the church only aware of my presence as a heavy thud of the oaken doors, but before I could retreat, two tall young men greeted me with warm smiles and sorrowful eyes. One was a thin, gangly kid, the other a burly boy with a crooked nose. I stood frozen, wondering how you knew this strange pair of young men. But my hesitation was my undoing, and the muscular one slipped his bulky arm under mine and led me down to the first unmarked pew. He didn't ask questions, so he didn't know I wasn't supposed to be there. He made the mistake; it was his fault.

At least, that's what I told myself. I played the words over and over in my head as I watched your family crumble in mourning.

I was only four pews away from your casket. I was so close; it felt like I was sitting in a pew meant for your family and your closest friends. But I just had to arrive early and steal a coveted spot on such an honorable bench.

Only a few sat in the pews ahead of me, and they had all huddled at the far end, leaving the side closest to the aisle open for new arrivals. But I was early, and I didn't know how these things worked, so I sat rigid and trembling where the usher left me, my eyes unable to tear away from your family in the front pew.

They wore black, nothing but black. The one on the end, a thick man with a rigid back, wore a finely cut suit. Maybe it had pinstripes once. Maybe he took a Sharpie and blackened them out. His hair was pitch black against his pale skin. Did he dye it? Did he fear a single gray strand was too much? A piece of lint fell from the church's ancient cross beams. It landed on his suit. He didn't turn. He just raised a hand and brushed it away, before sliding it back down and hiding the white skin from view.

Next to him was your mother, I wagered. She was not still. Perhaps that's why he sat like a statue, so cold and emotionless. Was it for her? Did he stay that way so she could cry for the both of them without feeling foolish? She shouldn't have felt foolish. I should have been the one feeling foolish, sitting there only four pews away. But my legs wouldn't rise, and so there I remained in that cherished pew.

The vigil before me had entranced me, pulling me into a world that I had no right to tread in. The woman turned to wipe her eyes. A thin hand, hidden beneath black gloves, raised the dark veil shielding her face. Mascara crept down her ghostly cheek like a vein of blood, but her lacy handkerchief caught it and returned her face back to the sick white of porcelain. Though I could not see her eyes, I felt her watching me. Her sobs silenced for a moment, though her body still quaked with hiccups. I felt the color drain from my skin and the weight of her and the saints' stares crushed against my shoulders. Her lips trembled, then she turned back to her grief.

Next to her were three children. They were teenagers, but still just children. Your family is young. The obituary said you had a large family, but nothing about how young they were. I always imagined you were mid-twenties, but no younger than twenty-five. Perhaps your parents feared losing you. Perhaps they thought you were growing up too fast and needed to have more so they could continue the love they felt for you once you abandoned the nest. However, they weren't ready for you to leave and those that were left to comfort your parents sat silent as stones. Too rigged for children. Out of all the sobbing, all the black, and all the pain, they disturbed me the most. Too quiet for children — too still, too sad.

Others filled the pews between me and your family. The black parade disappearing behind a wall of tattered old suits and straight dresses with high necklines. Rows two and three were similar copies of row one. Their shoulders may have been more square, their hair a bit lighter, their limbs a bit leaner, but they were all copies cut from the same cloth. Aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, and probably family you didn't even know you had. They sat shoulder to shoulder, squeezing together until the vision of your trembling family seemed like a distant nightmare. They sat there sobbing into each other's fragile embraces, staring into the distance, waiting for you to come into view again, to rise from your mahogany bed and show them it was all a sick joke. But you remained ever absent, and so they continued as weeping flowers and quiet marble. A candle could have been knocked over, lighting the whole church in flames, and still they wouldn't move. Only you could carry them out and set them back on their way.

With your immediate family blocked from my view, I pulled out of my stupor and slid down as far as I could. Others had entered my pew and slipped past my legs without a word. My cheeks reddened as my closest neighbor watched me move in beside her. But she simply gave a faint smile and turned her attention back to the raised altar before us. I looked behind me to find several people filling the church, some even lined the walls. Who were they all? Your best friend, your lazy friend, your quiet friend, your crazy friend, your roommates, your classmates, your teammates, and old prom dates. Did they all come out to see you one last time?

So why was I there?