Author's Note: If you have been following my other story, Location, you would know that I said it would be my last story here (possibly forever or for a while). However, I wanted to write this story in memory of a student of mine who tragically lost his life and today would have been his birthday. So in an effort to remember him in my own way, here's this little one-shot. Hope you enjoy it and wish him a happy birthday, wherever he may be :)
The sea of people sitting behind her are but a blur, simple shadows she can not seem to concentrate on. The murmurs and apologetic sentiments all go unheard. The shoulder or hand squeezes go unnoticed. All she can make out is the cement mark before her and the closed box that shields him from the living. No matter how many times she shuts her eyes and opens them, the box remains closed and she is still sitting in the same spot, half-listening to a stranger try to measure a life.
Is that possible?
How many happy moments do you have to live through to have lived what can be considered a worthwhile life? How many lives do you have to touch in order to be remembered?
"We all die eventually, it's just a matter of how long we can prolong it."
"How morbid of you to think that."
"Am I not right?"
"There has to be a more positive way to think about life I'm sure."
"Well of course there is. Think about it in breaths."
"Breaths?"
"Sure, it's a sign that you're living."
"So we measure life through breaths."
"It's as good a measurement as any don't you think?"
"I can agree to that I guess."
Who can say really.
She moves her head slightly to look at the people lining up to place flowers on this closed box and she can't make out the faces. The only thing she can think of is how much he would have hated those flowers. He would have gone on a rant about consumerism and the florist who overcharged for arrangements and exploited the pain of others.
She can't help but smile at the ludicrous thought, especially in a moment that proved unfunny. She wonders if he's somewhere watching them all from above, judging the sheer spectacle of it and hating every second of attention being directed towards him in this moment. Then this thought makes her giggle. He would judge her simply for thinking about the existence of an afterlife.
"I don't believe that we go anywhere after we die but, if we do, I hope there's a lot of beer and Zeppelin there."
She closes her eyes and once she opens them again she can see someone walking in her direction. She fights the urge to roll her eyes and forces herself to smile and appear friendly. How many more times can she put up with people saying how sorry they were? We're all sorry, aren't we?
She nods her head and smiles as they pay their condolences and walk away.
Suddenly, she hears her name being called and when she looks up, sees the pastor beckoning her towards the podium. It takes a moment to realize she has to speak and pretend that she is as strong as the front she has been putting up. She feels yet another person squeezing her shoulder before she stands up. Before walking to the stand, she walks up to the box for the first time since she arrived. All she wants to do is open it and tell him that the joke has gone too far and it's time to get up and come home. She knew nothing would actually happen if she did, but just for a second, she lets herself believe that he would actually comply.
She then walks to where the pastor stands and unfolds the paper she has been holding onto for the past hour. Looking down at her messy handwriting, she can't seem to make out the words she wrote; can't even remember when she wrote them. Must have been in one of the many clouded moments over the past week. She looks up at the people before her, her eyelids feeling heavy but they slowly come into focus.
Folding the paper again, she closes her eyes and smiles.
"Thank you all for coming," she starts as she opens her eyes again. "This isn't something you really plan for, so to say that I'm unprepared is an understatement. We had a lot of plans and now I have to do them on my own, because I promised him I would. I can stand here and tell you all about all the great memories we had together, but he would hate that. He wanted everyone to think he was a tough guy, even though we all knew he really wasn't. He was wonderful, in every sense of the word. He was stubborn, and frustrating...loving..."
She stops for a moment and looks over at the box and bites the inside of her cheek, trying to hold back the tears.
"He led a life full of breaths. Breaths that allowed him to be one of the best people I have ever met and it was such a privilege to share my life with him and create so many memories, even in the short time allotted to us. I'm sure you all have your own amazing stories about him because no matter how hard he tried not to, he was just so capable of changing lives, in his own quiet way. So I won't stand here and tell you about my memories, because we should all remember our own version on him. All I want to say is that I am forever thankful for the memories and that he shared his breaths with me. Thank you."
She walks back over to her seat and counts the number of breaths it takes.
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen...