(no subject)
I haven't done this in a while. I still talk to you every time I go to mass, that's really the only reason I go now. I don't pay attention, I could never tell you what the homily was about, I simply go through the motions. I get agitated by the time the second reading starts and then im fidgeting and playing with my hands to keep the memories at bay. But I look up at the altar and time transformed around me. The church becomes simple, and deceivingly bright, like the sun shining on Easter Sunday. I sit on the bench with our family, avoiding your brother's eyes in fear I might burst into tears if I look at him. I see your sister's shoulders lurch with sobs and I look down to stare at the black of my nylons for a bit. I block out the priest's voice. I don't remember a word he said. Our fathers are sitting next to each other, with our mothers flanking them. I avoid all eyes. Instead I focus on the stained glass window above the altar, watching the light dance through the colors. I am painfully aware of the rich mahogany box at the foot of the altar. I want to rip it open. I want to see that it's really you inside there. But I don't. Something in me stops me. Because not seeing you means you still exist somewhere out there. Somewhere outside of that coffin, somewhere you can't be touched by this ugly ending. You are free, not trapped in that box. Kenny Chesney starts to sing about who you would be today. I know you would be the same person you were five days ago. You would be that same kid I remember being chased by in the backyard. You might have looked different, you might have made it farther in life. You might have fallen in love, gotten a job, and got married. You might have traveled to Asia like you always wanted to. You might have invented something that cured the world's problems. You might have had kids. You might have grown older, more sarcastic, and more cynical. You might have retired up north in the mountains you loved so much. You might have grown old and died in your sleep one night. You might have been around a lot longer than you were. The song keeps playing. The funeral processes out of the church. And I follow, staring at the box with such intensity, wishing for you to be free. Wishing for you to exist somewhere else in this world. Wishing you had been around longer. And for the first time in my life, I am thankful for not seeing you for so many months. Now you will be on a trip again, a long one. And you will forever exist in the immortal. You are finally free. That's what I remember every time I step through the doors of a church. Thank god you're free.