Part 1. Ch. 1
I reached into my pocket and pulled my cell phone out. I quietly opened it to check the time and slid it back into my pocket. 10:32. Where would I be? Spanish, with Mr. Smith, who was gorgeous. He would almost be worthy of a crush, save for the fact that I once met his partner at the mall last month. It was quite unraveling at first, but also exciting. They were very beautiful together and I sometimes wondered if they fight for marraige like my friend Greg does.
This all seems far to unreal. I watch as my cousin carefully walks to the casket and peers in. She looks as if shes searching for world peace in that mahawgany box. She touches the cold lifeless hand and steps back, giving up on her search. I wonder if she found what she was looking for. I wonder if my mother's closed eyes and porcelin skin spoke the secrets of the world to her.
My father tells me I should go up, too. I've seen dead people before. My mother held my hand last year when I said goodbye to my grandmother. Her skin was wrinkled and nearly transperent. Her veins formed little blue highways that led down her arms into her fingers. When I touched her hand, I thought she might squeeze back, like she used to when I was little and she took me to the park.
I didn't really want to go say goodbye to my mother. Who in their right mind would want to say goodbye to their mother? I knew I had to. For the last three days I had been slowly avoiding this moment. This moment would make it all real. I walked slowly up. My family cooed and made sad noises at me. With each step I could see more and more of her. When I got to the front of the room, right where the chairs stopped and the platform began, I almost couldn't make it. My knees started to buckle. My mind raced and the world span. I stepped forward robotically. I touched her hand, I kissed her cool cheek. "Goodbye mommy, I love you forever and ever," I whispered, one silent tear dripping onto her cheek. I watched it fall down her face, half expecting her to reach up and wipe it off. Some part of me thought that it could warm her skin and force her heart to beat, that her eyes would suddenly open wide and she'd climb out and call the whole thing off. But instead it rolled down her face and stained the silk pillow resting under her perfectly done hair. I stood back up and took one last look at her. She looked so peaceful, something she never really was in life. Her hair was never done, her makeup never perfect, her nails never painted, her clothes never ironed. She looked so unnaturally put together, but she was still my mother.
This all seems far to unreal. I watch as my cousin carefully walks to the casket and peers in. She looks as if shes searching for world peace in that mahawgany box. She touches the cold lifeless hand and steps back, giving up on her search. I wonder if she found what she was looking for. I wonder if my mother's closed eyes and porcelin skin spoke the secrets of the world to her.
My father tells me I should go up, too. I've seen dead people before. My mother held my hand last year when I said goodbye to my grandmother. Her skin was wrinkled and nearly transperent. Her veins formed little blue highways that led down her arms into her fingers. When I touched her hand, I thought she might squeeze back, like she used to when I was little and she took me to the park.
I didn't really want to go say goodbye to my mother. Who in their right mind would want to say goodbye to their mother? I knew I had to. For the last three days I had been slowly avoiding this moment. This moment would make it all real. I walked slowly up. My family cooed and made sad noises at me. With each step I could see more and more of her. When I got to the front of the room, right where the chairs stopped and the platform began, I almost couldn't make it. My knees started to buckle. My mind raced and the world span. I stepped forward robotically. I touched her hand, I kissed her cool cheek. "Goodbye mommy, I love you forever and ever," I whispered, one silent tear dripping onto her cheek. I watched it fall down her face, half expecting her to reach up and wipe it off. Some part of me thought that it could warm her skin and force her heart to beat, that her eyes would suddenly open wide and she'd climb out and call the whole thing off. But instead it rolled down her face and stained the silk pillow resting under her perfectly done hair. I stood back up and took one last look at her. She looked so peaceful, something she never really was in life. Her hair was never done, her makeup never perfect, her nails never painted, her clothes never ironed. She looked so unnaturally put together, but she was still my mother.