before pulling me toward his jeep with my hand safely enveloped in his.
By the time we made it into his vehicle, I was soaking wet and shivering.
"The heat will warm it up in here in a few seconds," Dean said, cupping my chilled hands in his. He blew on them gently while never taking his eyes from mine.
"You know you're seriously breaking my 'no touching' rule," I stated.
"I figured since I'd broken the rules yesterday, I was now exempt from them," he said balefully, finally releasing my fingers so he could put the jeep in reverse.
I looked out my window, biting my lip so I couldn't break yet another rule. Being around him and sticking to my resolve were becoming more and more difficult.
We drove the rest of the way in silence. I was surprised and thankful he didn't ask about the touching thing. He could have. I knew I was a freak of nature. People didn't usually walk around with an invisible shield around them.
"Are you warm yet?" he finally asked, pulling through the open iron gates at St. Frances Cemetery.
"Yeah," I said, pulling a grey sweater out of my bag for the graveside service.
"At least they have tents set up," he said, indicating the two oversized tents filled with white folding chairs that bracketed a smaller tent holding a closed casket that was resting on a stand in the center of the tent. Mourners were already filling the wooden chairs that sat on the sodden grass. A couple that looked to be my parents' age sat in the front row, sandwiched between a set of elderly people who were obviously grandparents. The woman in the middle, most likely Mitch's mom, sat sobbing as she gripped the hands of those beside her. It was Mitch's father who hit me like a punch in the gut. His grief was evident as he sat with drooped shoulders beside the sobbing woman, tears coursing down his own cheeks. I had never seen a man cry before.
I gulped silently, looking at the living proof of Mitch's last decision in front of me. If Mitch hadn't beaten me to the punch, this could have been me. It would have been me. The moment seemed so final. A box was all that remained of him.
"You okay?" Dean asked.
"Uh, yeah," I answered, realizing I had stopped in the rain ten feet or so from the enclosures.
"You sure?" he asked, looking concerned.
I nodded, heading for the last row of seats in the tent that sat to the left of the casket. Dean sat next to me and rested his arm along the back of my chair. I didn't protest. Breaking the rules was suddenly the last thing I was worried about as I watched the grieving adults in front of me. Was this how my moment would have been? Would people have grieved for me? I'd always assumed I'd leave the Earth much the way I lived on it. Invisible. This went beyond the fake grief I'd observed in class three days ago. This went deeper to the core. Why did Mitch decide to end his life? It seemed evident his parents cared for him greatly. I knew my reasons, and I sort of knew James's reasons, but what about Mitch?
The seats around us filled up as people hurried under the dry enclosures to escape the rain that kept up its relentless flow. If I believed in God, I would have said that surely the angels must have been weeping over the lost soul. But I didn't.
Once the seats were all occupied, the minster stepped to the podium where a microphone was set up.
" Today is a grievous day on both heaven and earth. Suicide is an epidemic. One out of every five teenagers has thought of committing suicide, and at least one out of every twelve has attempted it. Statistics like this scare me. For the failure is ours. As the family's minister, I accept full blame for this tragic loss. Over the last few days, I've prayed about my part in this senseless tragedy. What if I would have engaged Mitch more often? What if I would have added teenage depression in my sermons? What if I would have set up family counseling at the sanctuary? But what ifs don't change anything today. Mitch's death is a tragedy that cannot be
By the time we made it into his vehicle, I was soaking wet and shivering.
"The heat will warm it up in here in a few seconds," Dean said, cupping my chilled hands in his. He blew on them gently while never taking his eyes from mine.
"You know you're seriously breaking my 'no touching' rule," I stated.
"I figured since I'd broken the rules yesterday, I was now exempt from them," he said balefully, finally releasing my fingers so he could put the jeep in reverse.
I looked out my window, biting my lip so I couldn't break yet another rule. Being around him and sticking to my resolve were becoming more and more difficult.
We drove the rest of the way in silence. I was surprised and thankful he didn't ask about the touching thing. He could have. I knew I was a freak of nature. People didn't usually walk around with an invisible shield around them.
"Are you warm yet?" he finally asked, pulling through the open iron gates at St. Frances Cemetery.
"Yeah," I said, pulling a grey sweater out of my bag for the graveside service.
"At least they have tents set up," he said, indicating the two oversized tents filled with white folding chairs that bracketed a smaller tent holding a closed casket that was resting on a stand in the center of the tent. Mourners were already filling the wooden chairs that sat on the sodden grass. A couple that looked to be my parents' age sat in the front row, sandwiched between a set of elderly people who were obviously grandparents. The woman in the middle, most likely Mitch's mom, sat sobbing as she gripped the hands of those beside her. It was Mitch's father who hit me like a punch in the gut. His grief was evident as he sat with drooped shoulders beside the sobbing woman, tears coursing down his own cheeks. I had never seen a man cry before.
I gulped silently, looking at the living proof of Mitch's last decision in front of me. If Mitch hadn't beaten me to the punch, this could have been me. It would have been me. The moment seemed so final. A box was all that remained of him.
"You okay?" Dean asked.
"Uh, yeah," I answered, realizing I had stopped in the rain ten feet or so from the enclosures.
"You sure?" he asked, looking concerned.
I nodded, heading for the last row of seats in the tent that sat to the left of the casket. Dean sat next to me and rested his arm along the back of my chair. I didn't protest. Breaking the rules was suddenly the last thing I was worried about as I watched the grieving adults in front of me. Was this how my moment would have been? Would people have grieved for me? I'd always assumed I'd leave the Earth much the way I lived on it. Invisible. This went beyond the fake grief I'd observed in class three days ago. This went deeper to the core. Why did Mitch decide to end his life? It seemed evident his parents cared for him greatly. I knew my reasons, and I sort of knew James's reasons, but what about Mitch?
The seats around us filled up as people hurried under the dry enclosures to escape the rain that kept up its relentless flow. If I believed in God, I would have said that surely the angels must have been weeping over the lost soul. But I didn't.
Once the seats were all occupied, the minster stepped to the podium where a microphone was set up.
" Today is a grievous day on both heaven and earth. Suicide is an epidemic. One out of every five teenagers has thought of committing suicide, and at least one out of every twelve has attempted it. Statistics like this scare me. For the failure is ours. As the family's minister, I accept full blame for this tragic loss. Over the last few days, I've prayed about my part in this senseless tragedy. What if I would have engaged Mitch more often? What if I would have added teenage depression in my sermons? What if I would have set up family counseling at the sanctuary? But what ifs don't change anything today. Mitch's death is a tragedy that cannot be
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