I wish I could say something uplifting, something inspiring or heartfelt. I just wish I could say something. But I can't. My mouth won't move and the sound refuses to come as my eyes glue themselves to the box, small and light, made from a dark wood found on the mainland.
All I can think of is him, McKay, always fidgeting and moving. There was always something, a tapping foot, a clenching and unclenching fist, eyes that were never truly at rest. Rodney was always moving, and it annoyed me. It frustrated me, made me nervous, pissed me off, and all I can think about is how much it hurts, like a physical blow, to see him lying so still, so pale.
He's wearing a suit of a type I've never seen, something Sheppard called a tie, laying still in the box as we pay our respects, say our goodbyes. I need him to move, need him to fidget and yell and gesture wildly like he does when he yells at his staff. I need him to move, need him to be okay like Beckett told me he would, or maybe I'll stop moving, stop being okay too.
I barely register my mouth opening, the sound coming out as the tears start to roll. "He was our friend. He's saved my life more times than I can count and now he's gone. He was my friend and I will miss him." Simple, curt, appropriate. Sheppard and Teyla are nodding encouragingly at me. "We all well."
I'm finished, couldn't say another word if I tried, and I barely make it back to my seat before my knees collapse under me. I hate funerals.