First Funeral

Cyrus had never been to a funeral before.

It was a hot June day at South Street Cemetery. Everyone was there: Uncle Joe, Aunt Lisa,

and even cousin Charlie. He rarely got to see cousin Charlie. There were a lot of other people there,

but Cyrus only recognized a few. He was only five years old and had never met most of these people.

His mother had explained to him that they were all related. She was sitting next to him on a long,

brown bench. She wore an all black dress that he had never seen before and a small black sheet that

hung from her hat. She called it a veil. Cyrus had asked to wear it before they had left the house, but

his mother just ushered him into the car.

His mother’s features were hard to make out behind the sheet. Her pink lips, caramel skin, thin

brows, high cheekbones, and deep brown eyes were all very well hidden. Even her beautiful, curly

brown hair had been tucked away beneath her black hat. Cyrus sat in thought, questioning the

mysterious black veil. Why would someone want to hide their face? His mother was so beautiful, at

least, that is what Cyrus’s father always said. He was always quick to compliment her and make her

smile. Cyrus had not seen that smile in what felt like forever.

Cyrus and his mother sat there in silence for a while. He began to get restless, and his mother

took notice.

“You should go find your cousin to talk to,” she said, gesturing towards a tree in the distance.

Cyrus’s cousin Charlie sat beneath a tall tree with three other kids. Charlie was four years

older than Cyrus, and the three kids he was with looked to be older as well. They were laughing

cheerfully in a small semicircle. The age difference between Cyrus and Charlie never had an affect on

their few interactions, because after all, they were family. His father pointed that out the first time

Cyrus was introduced to Charlie.

Cyrus’s mother nudged him, bringing him back to reality. She gestured towards the tree a

second time.

“Go talk to your cousin,” she said.

It did not feel like a suggestion, but rather a command, as if his presence was a nuisance to

her. Cyrus’s mother sensed the attitude in her tone and delicately put her arm around her son.

“Or you could stay with me, if you like,” she said.

The second option sounded very appealing, but spending time with cousin Charlie was a rare

occurrence that he would hate to pass up. He looked back towards the tree, watching as the children

continued to laugh. What was so funny he wondered? Had he been there, Cyrus believed his father

would be the cause of such cheerful energy. No one loved a joke or humorous banter more than him.

“It’s ok,” his mother said. She had picked up on his uncertainty. “I know you rarely see your

relatives, especially Charlie. You go have fun with them. I’ll be right here.”

Her voice was always so pleasant, so piercing. Cyrus leaned closer to hug her, and she

tightened her arm around him ever so slightly in return. She placed her head on top of his short curly

hair and nuzzled it with her hand.

Cyrus walked away from his mother towards the children under the tree. They were laughing

just as cheerfully as before. He was better able to make out the appearance of the three children as

he got closer to the tree. Charlie sat leaning against the tree between the other two children. To his

right sat another boy with charcoal black hair. His wide grin was decorated with baby blue braces.

Very colorful. To Charlie’s left sat a girl with very long blonde hair. She held her hair in her lap

because it would likely get tangled and sullied in the grass otherwise. The commonality amongst the

three was their dark attire. The boys shared similar black suits, and the girl wore a plain black dress,

similar to his mother’s. It was at this point that Charlie took notice of Cyrus's arrival.

“Hey, Cyrus! Long time no see.” He waved as he greeted Cyrus.

Cyrus waved in return and simply smiled, suddenly feeling awkward to have intruded on their

seemingly hysterical conversation. But the laughter had stopped abruptly. He looked at the two

children around Charlie and found that their wide-mouthed grins had been replaced with sealed lips.

Utter silence from the two. The girl did not look at Cyrus, but rather around him. She then leaned

towards Charlie and whispered something in his ear. He pulled away and nodded in return, as if to

answer or even confirm her query. Cyrus’s school teachers often did this with each other when the

students were present. He hated it.

The other boy to Charlie’s right sat cross-legged in the grass, staring at the green blades

before him as if they were the most fascinating thing he had ever seen. It was unlikely. Cyrus

recognized the look, however. That purposefully distant look meant to keep people out. It was the

look his mother had given him just that morning when he asked to wear her hat and veil. It was the

look his mother had been giving him whenever Cyrus asked when his father would come home. He

still did not know.

It was as if Cyrus’s thoughts of his father were being projected above his head when the girl

before him asked, “What happened to your dad?” Her voice was more high pitched then he

anticipated, like a cartoon character. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, the girl

presented him with another question.

“Was he actually drunk?”

Drunk. Cyrus had only heard this word once before. It was late one night, perhaps one month

earlier when he was suddenly awakened by loud noises coming from outside his bedroom. He was

aware of where he was, and he was aware that the noise was his parents talking, but he was in the

sort of state that nearly every individual gets in when they are first awakened.

The next morning, the only word he could recall from his parents' loud argument was “drunk”. He

added it to his mental list of things he did not know.

Cyrus opened his mouth again to speak, but was interrupted by Charlie’s sudden movements.

Charlie nudged the girl to his right and hastily shook his head, perhaps to stop her from asking

anymore questions. Cyrus was thankful for this because he truly did not have the answers to her

questions, much less the understanding of what a “drunk” is.

Cyrus still felt the need to speak. He may have lacked answers for the girl, but he had the only

answer that had given him solace the past week.

“My daddy is coming home soon,” he said.

Charlie’s smile had faded. In fact, it had been fading since he had first greeted Cyrus under the

tree. The future botanist who had been silent during the entire interaction now raised his head

towards Cyrus.

“Your dad is dead, kid.”

Death resided at the top of Cyrus’s mental list. It confused him and made him feel a sort of

heaviness in his chest at the thought of it. Death was so finite. People who die do not come back. But

his father was coming back, so the boy was wrong. His mother told him that he was coming back, but

she had that look in her eye, like she needed to keep something from him. The boy lost this look

when he spoke to Cyrus. He did not trust that look because it had become apparent to him that the

look did not trust him. Tears began to swell in his eyes. Why would his father leave forever? His father

loved him and his mother. He was sure of it. Cyrus turned and ran from the tree. Tears began to pour

down his cheeks. His vision was blurry, but she was not.

His mother sat right where she had promised to remain, and Cyrus stumbled before her,

unable to bear the weight that had emerged in his chest. She quickly sat him down on the bench and

kept her arm around him. His sobs had reduced to sniffles and heavy breathing. Cyrus looked up at

his mother.

“Why isn’t daddy coming home?” he asked.

His mother tightened her arm around him ever so slightly. With her free hand, she removed the

veil and hat from her head. Her curly brown hair fell to her shoulders. Her mouth smiled at him, but

her eyes revealed that she too had been crying. She placed the hat on his head and the veil over his

face, hiding him from the rest of the world. Now he understood his mother’s veil. One less thing on his

mental list.