Funeral

I watched the love of my life get married when she was nineteen years and a day old. I sat in the church and watched, watched her get married to another man. He won, I lost. She loved him more. Him and his stupid football playing arms. She said so, but not in those words. Anyway, that night I drank a whole six pack of beer and watched basic cable until it felt like my brain would explode. Or implode, as the case may be. The teletubbies will only hold one’s attention for so long before they make you want to kill yourself. Moving on, years later, though not that many, I’m sitting at home, same TV, when my mother calls. Her husband is dead, she says. I didn’t listen to how, because I was too busy picturing her there, on the other end of the line all small and wrinkled, on the old fashioned phone she refuses to replace. I say, Yes, I’m coming, I’ll go. I drain a can of Bud before I pack. She seemed to do that to me. Next day, I’m in my hometown, to find it hadn’t changed at all, none of those places ever do. So I go, dressed in black, to the funeral home, feeling dizzy from the jet lag and the incense and the crying of people around me. Then we all walk outside, a mournful herd dressed to the nines in black wool and silk, and watches the usual proceedings and there she is, all in black saying a few words over her deceased high school sweetheart. I guess once upon a time, I’d have missed him too, because he was friend, at least once. But now I can’t even conjure up a focused image of his face, and anyway I’m transfixed by how beautiful she still looks, and how even drenched in tears, she is a goddess. The coffin, small and brown, sinks into the ground and gets swallowed up by shovelful after shovelful of rich dark dirt. People leave. She and I stay. Then we walk, quiet, in silent agreement, until we come to this bench. A simple, wood and concrete thing. We sit down, her on my right. She still smells like peppermint and I think to myself, twenty-three is too young to be a widow. She says nothing, and I start to say something, but decide not to. Can’t remember what I as trying to say. Probably some bullshit like, I’m sorry for your loss. After a while, she asks what we’re doing, and I don’t answer. I look ahead and there’s this old guy by a grave. He looks at us and I think that we must look like a couple. I stay quiet, and I watch him leave, walking slowly, stooped with age and grief. After he’s gone, I ask her if maybe later she wants to grab a bite to eat. She closes her eyes and leans her head back and I notice there’s a freckle on her left eyelid. She’s considering what I’m asking, because we both know that I’m really asking to be let into her life, her heart, between her legs. The she sighs and opens her eyes, and asks if it bothers me. I ask what she means. She says, with the frantic pace of someone that needs to say it all, before the stage lights go off, the house going dim, the chance lost. Something she needs to get off her chest. “I mean does it bother you that you’re the second choice. Number two in the race. Winner by default, by forfeit.” Now it’s my turn to sigh and stew silently. I think about it, not or very long, and I tell no, because I’d rather win second place than not be in the race at all. She closes her eyes, and reaches out her hand. I meet her halfway, and put her soft pale hand in mine, and we sit there for a while. Fall is starting and some leaves have begun to turn orange. Sitting there, hunched together in shared sorrow and black clothes, a think that we must look like a real couple now. We sit there, watching the clouds, and when it’s darker we watch the stars. We feel much older than we are, and at the same time, lighter, younger. Then she opens her eyes and I see a girl in them again. She says she could go for some coffee now. She smiles, and I’m drunk on it, and life, and her peppermint smell. We leave the graveyard, still holding hands.