The Funeral

You can't always tell what kind of funeral it's going to be by the cars people drive. There could be a million Volvos and Audi's but undoubtably there's always the few clunkers that park off street.  The real way you can tell is by the clothing and the funeral home. If it's in a Catholic church, I dress up - shawl included. If it's one of those places off the side of the highway, I choose a tasteful, dark, pant suit or a dark blue dress. This service is in a home I'm not familiar with in a location that is near the country club, but not far away from the fishing docks either. I dressed in my black conservative dress with minimal jewelry. 

It started about a month ago when I lost my job as a therapist. It was a cozy private practice with patients that I had known for years. Their problems at times seemed trivial, but I never talked down to them. Instead I had coached them through their relationship problems and work stresses with equal stride. When they politely broached the subject of leaving therapy, I would always smile and say 'If that's what you really want.' They never did. Whether they benefited or not, I was never entirely sure. Although one can always feel helpful, progress is another thing all together. Once the job was gone, I felt the absence of problems run dry and an emptiness lived on past my patients.  Without that special place and time for darker moments, I found the emptiness taking over spaces of my life like an amoeba. It was then that I started seeking comfort elsewhere.

I stepped out of my car into a rain that had been drizzling all morning only to see a group of melancholy guests walking toward the funeral home. A man in a dark rain jacket looked solemnly in my direction before nodding. I nodded back, still unaware of what to say.

"It's around the corner and to the back," a woman in a formal dress and pearls ushered me inside. "I'm so sorry for your loss."

As I walked to the back of the hall, I heard a voice talking in a well-thought-out rhythm about God and the after life. The room in the back was large, but there were no pews available. A few metal folding chairs sat off to the left, but they too were taken up by men in dark, heavy, raincoats. A few teenagers in baggy dark jeans and black slickers stood off to the side. There were only a dozen or so women there and I felt more out of place than usual standing by myself in the back.

"We know that a man as great as Matthew will have no worries where he has gone," the woman in the pulpit rattled on. I looked over my shoulder as the group from outside huddled near me. It was a younger group, but I couldn't make out their exact ages by the way their faces were drawn. They weren't the kind that was used to being solemn and I could see that their faces still had traces of acne scattered about their cheeks and noses. 

"How did you know, Matthew?" The man in the raincoat whispered beside me.

"Through John."

He nodded confidently. This was a satisfactory answer. After a few minutes, the woman ended her speech and stepped into the front aisle. A tall man and older woman came up to the stage and through tears, mumbled through a piece of paper they shared. "Matthew was the best son any parents could have had..." The woman began to tremble.

He must have been very young. A car crash perhaps or maybe a freak boating accident. Perhaps when he was a child he thought he could have been a fisherman like his father, but his temperment was too soft. Being laughed at for gentle hands and a quiet affect must have given him the fuel he needed to start his career by the docks. I could still smell the salty ocean air from inside the home.

The lighting was fluorescent and seemed daunting compared to the room full of darkness. I could recognize their pain as something charged and flowing from person to person. It was as if a magnetic shadow had melted into everyone's face until the only thing left un-touched was the coffin that stood open in the front. If the coffin weren't there, it would just be a room full of grief with nothing tangible to hold on to. It would be a moment of unexplained depression that seeped in where no one expected it, leaving the feelings unrescued and floating. 

It was a short service and after everyone had a chance to talk, two people at a time walked up the casket and placed flowers inside. The mother and father went first and then what I presumed as the rest of the family followed suit. A tall and lanky boy of about sixteen went up to the coffin with a girl of about nine and I wondered if they were too young to see this. Something as gloomy as death should be reserved for those old enough to feel it.

The man in the raincoat took my arm and we walked together up to the casket. His arm was electrifying as I was unaccustomed to people noticing me in these situations. He smelt vaguely of after shave, but I wondered if he was old enough to use it.  The group he had come with stood huddled together in the back, not daring to move. I wondered if perhaps he didn't want them to see his emotions or that maybe he just found more comfort in a stranger. 

I peered into the casket to see a boy of about eighteen wearing a brown suit and brown shoes lying there with his eyes closed. His face was blushed with funeral makeup, making him look fresh out of the womb. I wondered how all these people knew him and what he was like. Was he ambitious or slack? Cute or tough? His presence oddly satisfied me and for a brief moment I didn't have to think about the pain of losing my job. 

"This doesn't even look like him," the man whispered to me.

"No," I stared at the youthful body with rumpled blonde hair. "Certainly not."