Friday, March 9th, 2018
I stared from the car window watching large flakes pile on ground and tombstones, not yet strong enough to cover the road. Cold country air seeped through numb ears into my skull, the cemetery not far enough away for the car’s heat to work properly. Pulling to a stop, my eyelids momentarily shut while I attempted to clear the echoing of an icy bell from my head. Tung... Tung... Tung... I wondered why they make it so loud. So definite.
The funeral was bad enough. Nobody wants to go to a funeral until it is scheduled. Then, nobody wants to miss the funeral. Miss the goodbye. The priests and clergymen vigorously took our hands, telling us how sorry they were. That confused me. I thought they believed dying lead to eternal paradise, heaven, a place of dreams- so why be sorry? Maybe sorry for me, sorry for my family’s loss. They never said what they were sorry for, but I was still curious. I was never sorry the day of the funeral. I didn’t even cry.
No life had been taken. No life had been stolen. A life had reached its finale after several long seasons of adventures. I was confused because she had finally escaped, and why be sorry about that? I was confused because my grandma hadn’t died, but the dementia had. And if it was possible have killed that monster before her funeral, I would have. But, it wasn’t possible. There was nothing I could do. Nothing, besides observe.
Observe, watch from a distance because if I had gotten close and held dementia’s hand, I might have caught it. I was afraid of it; afraid to look into its eyes and try to find someone who wasn’t there. I knew it was contagious, and if I’d have caught it, I might have let the present slip away as old memories, the good times, came back in jumbles to attempt to replace right now. I might have felt feelings I didn’t want to feel, think thoughts I didn’t want to think, experience things I didn’t want to experience. Even from a distance, I caught the dementia, childishly believing in the dumb idea that “observing” made it better. But, I didn’t cry at the funeral. There had been a few years to do that beforehand.
The priests went through their routine. Every step had been taken before, every line said before. There was never a shortage of people dying, after all. They talked about “suffering” and why it was necessary, and “God’s plan” and why it was necessary. I didn’t understand. Life is a rollercoaster with ups and downs- doesn’t mean it has to end with a spike pit. A lot of people go to religion for answers, but it always leaves me more confused. I hope God is trying their best.
We left the church at eleven on the dot, not that anybody cared if we were late. The bell struck at the hour- Tung... Tung... Tung...- piercing the frigid wind, until it was able to find refuge in our ears. We followed my grandma for the last time, the hearse winding through desolate streets as all but one passenger in the procession shivered in stale car air. She lead us through rusted gates, up the mountainside, and past hundreds of snow-covered tombstones. Some had flowers, others had rocks, one even had a conch from the beach. I wondered about the ghosts that visited the tombstones once or twice each year. How many of these grave’s ghosts had moved on? How many had come to permanently stay? How many people would never receive another flower, rock, or conch?
I don’t like death. I don’t like thinking about it. Usually, life around me keeps me occupied, but I was outnumbered right now. Old thoughts that had been boarded up broke free. I didn’t like thinking about myself dying, but the only alternative way was thinking about others dying, and I didn’t like that even more. I think everyone has “suicidal” thoughts being curious about what happens, which is funny because only crazy people have them. I’ve always been pessimistic, but I hope the priests were right.
Flakes continued to fall as we pulled to a stop. I remained where I was, unmoving. “Matt, come on.” I emerged from the car, face to face with a cemetary that had broken the glass it was behind just a few moments before. The world seemed to agree with us today, freezing tears to cheeks as I observed the world surrounding me. The hearse waited in front of us, knowing exactly what we didn’t want to do. I wondered why they made hearses so unattractive. I don’t want my last ride to be in a hearse.
My uncle, my father, me, and three men I did not know pulled the casket from the automobile before walking down a shoveled path to a canopy protecting the only rock in the cemetery that remained untouched by snow. The rock with our name on it. Farrell. I had seen it a million times before. I had read it about as many. Countless times, I scrawled the F-a-rr-e-ll on the top of my paper. This was different. I saw a missing child poster with my face on it. I held my own death certificate. I was burying someone my entire existence had been dependent on, while looking into my future, seeing what my genetic predisposition had in store for my finale. I still didn’t cry. The wind dried my eyes.
The priest continued with the procession. By the end, goosebumps dotted my entire upper body, but I wasn’t cold. I flexed numb fingers before using their tips to trace the carved wood of the coffin. Beautiful. And nobody would ever see it again. I took one last look at the coffin, then walked back out into white flakes, refusing to look back.
We piled back into the car, pulling past tombstones.
“Are you okay, Matt? You haven’t said anything all morning.”
“I’m fine. Just a little cold.”
Eventually, the car’s heat kicked in, allowing teeth to stop chattering and goosebumps to fall. We traveled back through the small town as the sun emerged from behind the clouds for a surprise afternoon visit. It was officially done. No more waiting. No more guessing when. No more observing.
She hadn’t deserved this. My family hadn’t deserved this. Nobody deserved this. And tear glands had grown so dry over the previous years that not a drop had been conjured all day. I had stood indifferent over the coffin, simply because that was certainly better than going back to the feelings that came with every Christmas and spring break road trip down to my grandma’s house.
The car moved onwards, the grass standing on its tip-toes to poke its head through the melting snow. Gentle music floated through speakers as the last few flakes scattered from the path of the windshield. The city began to come to life with the sun, denizens retreating from warm homes to explore quick break of the elements. Old thoughts disappeared with the powder outside, after all I was only a kid. There’d be plenty of time to worry about them later.
“So, you guys want to grab some lunch?” asked my Dad.
Stomach grumbling from lack of breakfast, I turned towards the front of the car, after taking one last long gaze at the light shining through clouds on the West Virginian mountains.
“Sure,” I responded, “I’m starving.” After all, there was still a long day ahead of me.
Matthew Farrell enjoys writing enough to have written and submitted this piece. Next year he is studying film and journalism at Pennsylvania State University.