nice man. I know. Iâve met him before. He performed the ceremony at Ronaldâs and Peterâs weddings. Heâs nice but boring.
Anyway, how can I listen? Mum is in that box.
She wanted to die first, before any of us. Well, she got her wish.
        Â
Iâve got to stop looking at the coffin. It kills me to look, but for some reason I keep turning my head to the right to see it. Iâm going to throw up. The colored light shining through the stained-glass windows is making me queasy. And the tears, I canât stop the tears. Iâm being quiet about it and I have my back to everyone, being in the front row and all, so I suppose they canât tell. Iâve just got to make sure my shoulders donât move up and down in that crying way. But if I donât stop crying soon, I think itâs going to get worse and Iâll start wailing like one of those Italian women in black sack dresses and stockings with black shawls draped over their heads. The ones who throw themselves over the graves and all that. It probably would be good to be Italian right now. At least they donât have to sit quietly and act like itâs no big deal. At least they think itâs normal to show, really show, what you feel.
The minister is almost done, and Tracy made it through without shedding a tear.
I wish she were Italian.
Now we have to leave the church. I have to turn around and face everyone sitting in the old wooden pews. I have to walk past the coffin again and back up the aisle. Iâm still crying like an idiot and I canât seem to stop. Iâm going to puke. I just know it.
Iâm up the aisle and I donât know how I got here. Iâm walking without moving. Everyoneâs looking at me with sad, quiet smiles. Weâre poor motherless children.
âDonât forget about Dad!â
I want to say.
âHeâs still alive!â
I want them all to hug me, but at the same time I want to tell them to fuck off. That would be nice. All dressed like a lady in pink but acting like a ruffian in black. I donât think Mum would like that.
She wouldnât know, though.
âHer spirit is hovering over us right now.â
Bullshit! I donât care what the delusional minister says, that crap is just for people who canât cope with the truth. The truth is sheâs about to be shoved in the back of a big black car, tossed around like a sack of potatoes while sheâs driven to a cemetery, placed hovering over a hole, buried under a lot of dirt, and then left lying there all alone while we go off and eat tea cakes.
It must be so lonely in that box.
I wish I could save her.
        Â
My driver is sweating in the hot sun and holding the car door open for Frances and me.
âThank you, sir,â I say, swishing my pink hem as I get in. Iâm Auntie Mame on my way to the theater.
So now weâre off to the hole in the ground.
I donât think I can stand much more of this. I want to hold my head up high the way grievers do in the movies, but this isnât really like the movies at all. They got it all wrong. This is unbearable. Itâs nothing like my daydream or premonition or whatever that thing was, where I was braver than Joan of Arc.
We drive and drive, slowly following the hearse. I suppose thatâs the number-one rule at funeral driver school: drive like an old granny. Take the corners real slow, and donât speak to the passengers. All the cars around us know who we are, the grieving relatives, and they drive slow too. It must be contagious.
Weâre almost there. The hearse has just turned into the tiny cemetery on the hill. The grass is dry and yellow and crunchy from the heat. Mum always wanted to be buried on a hill in the countryside. Very
Sound of Music.
Except the hills arenât alive, theyâre full of dead people. I sing quietly to myself, âWhen Iâm feeling
Anyway, how can I listen? Mum is in that box.
She wanted to die first, before any of us. Well, she got her wish.
        Â
Iâve got to stop looking at the coffin. It kills me to look, but for some reason I keep turning my head to the right to see it. Iâm going to throw up. The colored light shining through the stained-glass windows is making me queasy. And the tears, I canât stop the tears. Iâm being quiet about it and I have my back to everyone, being in the front row and all, so I suppose they canât tell. Iâve just got to make sure my shoulders donât move up and down in that crying way. But if I donât stop crying soon, I think itâs going to get worse and Iâll start wailing like one of those Italian women in black sack dresses and stockings with black shawls draped over their heads. The ones who throw themselves over the graves and all that. It probably would be good to be Italian right now. At least they donât have to sit quietly and act like itâs no big deal. At least they think itâs normal to show, really show, what you feel.
The minister is almost done, and Tracy made it through without shedding a tear.
I wish she were Italian.
Now we have to leave the church. I have to turn around and face everyone sitting in the old wooden pews. I have to walk past the coffin again and back up the aisle. Iâm still crying like an idiot and I canât seem to stop. Iâm going to puke. I just know it.
Iâm up the aisle and I donât know how I got here. Iâm walking without moving. Everyoneâs looking at me with sad, quiet smiles. Weâre poor motherless children.
âDonât forget about Dad!â
I want to say.
âHeâs still alive!â
I want them all to hug me, but at the same time I want to tell them to fuck off. That would be nice. All dressed like a lady in pink but acting like a ruffian in black. I donât think Mum would like that.
She wouldnât know, though.
âHer spirit is hovering over us right now.â
Bullshit! I donât care what the delusional minister says, that crap is just for people who canât cope with the truth. The truth is sheâs about to be shoved in the back of a big black car, tossed around like a sack of potatoes while sheâs driven to a cemetery, placed hovering over a hole, buried under a lot of dirt, and then left lying there all alone while we go off and eat tea cakes.
It must be so lonely in that box.
I wish I could save her.
        Â
My driver is sweating in the hot sun and holding the car door open for Frances and me.
âThank you, sir,â I say, swishing my pink hem as I get in. Iâm Auntie Mame on my way to the theater.
So now weâre off to the hole in the ground.
I donât think I can stand much more of this. I want to hold my head up high the way grievers do in the movies, but this isnât really like the movies at all. They got it all wrong. This is unbearable. Itâs nothing like my daydream or premonition or whatever that thing was, where I was braver than Joan of Arc.
We drive and drive, slowly following the hearse. I suppose thatâs the number-one rule at funeral driver school: drive like an old granny. Take the corners real slow, and donât speak to the passengers. All the cars around us know who we are, the grieving relatives, and they drive slow too. It must be contagious.
Weâre almost there. The hearse has just turned into the tiny cemetery on the hill. The grass is dry and yellow and crunchy from the heat. Mum always wanted to be buried on a hill in the countryside. Very
Sound of Music.
Except the hills arenât alive, theyâre full of dead people. I sing quietly to myself, âWhen Iâm feeling
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