I've always hated funerals. They give death a closure; make it final. Then it's official, he's dead and nothing you can say will make it better, or take away the hurt. So much hurt.
My parents died when I was fifteen. They were alcoholics; they deserved what they got. I was doing a project in school about drunk driving and laughed at the irony. But Irony and I always walked hand in hand.
Now seven years later, here I am at the funeral of my husband, feeling glad that he's dead, that the pain is gone.
Joe exits the car and drops, literally drops, in to the chair. My heart is too sore to beat faster as he squeezes my hand.
"It'll be okay", he says. No it wont, I want to scream, but screaming doesn't do any good. I can't even nod, or speak, as my throat closes up, and tears fall from my eyes.
The priest starts talking, something about the promise of a better life, and heaven. I don't listen, all I hear is the cries of Bryan's sister, and I wish I could let go, and just cry, cry, and cry.
For the first few years of my life, I didn't cry at all. My mother did too much of that, every time my father came home late, and especially when he didn't come home at all.
Don't cry, Momma. Please don't cry. Momma?
The priest stops talking, and the only sound is Denise sobbing her heart out.
Joe is tense, trying to be strong, trying to offer comfort, but I know I'm the one who has to be strong.
"For Christ's sake, Joe, cry if you want." The harshness of my own voice startles me. Joe does start crying, just as my tears stop.
When my parents died, all the tears I kept inside came out. I cried for the parents I never properly had, not like other children.
By the time of the funeral, I was cried out.
It's the same thing now, just a different person, different cause of death.
Eloisa and Ross Cameron, age thirty six, and thirty seven, time of death 4:06 a.m, 1990.
Bryan Spring, age twenty-two, time of death 3:57 p.m, 1997.
Joe cries into my shoulder, and I wonder bitterly why I always have to be the one who is mature, and responsible.
The next time I fall in love, I will be myself; I'll be the one crying.
It's a selfish thought, I know, but I'm too tired to care. Everything seems to spin, and I wonder when the last time I ate was. As Joe speaks, his words echo in my ears:
"Thanks, Allie", I manage to say something like your welcome, even though I don't mean it.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust
I have a sudden urge to throw up. It's ironic, throwing up on a empty stomach. But like I said, Irony and I always walked hand in hand. The only hand that I ever had to hold.
The funerals over, at last, and its final, official, and nothing I say can take away the hurt. Too much hurt.
Joe squeezes my hand one last time, managing a smile, and I realize that Joe and I can never be happy together.
I nod, smile, get into my car. He waves.
Pulling out of the driveway, I head into the glories sunset, not looking back.