The Funeral
The light bulbs strained in the darkly paneled room. I stood listening to the hushed conversations of people discussing relatives they hadn’t seen in years. Some of them were crying. Some were not. I was not. I was getting restless.
This was the first funeral I had ever been to. My mother noticed my fidgeting and gave me a piece of Wrigley’s chewing gum. It was a bribe she often used in church so I’d behave. She always carried chewing gum in her purse. Contented, I found an empty wooden folding chair, sat down, and chewed. The chair had a numbered metal tag on the back, “No.11”.
From my chair, “No.11”, I looked to the other side of the room. There, framed by flower arrangements and set on a silver stand with casters, was a coffin. In it, I was certain, was a dead body. Morbid as it may sound, I found myself wanting very much to see this dead body. After all, I was just a kid, curious and excited, and with no emotional stake in this person. It would certainly be something to talk about Monday, at school.
An hour had passed and my gum had lost its flavor. After a while, all I could taste and smell was the heavy, unfiltered smoke from too many lit cigarettes. The crowd was thinning and I could see my mother collecting her things: purse, sweater, scarf.. I knew we’d be leaving soon. Across the room, the coffin stood alone. This was my chance.
Now, amidst the childish curiosity, excitement, and fear, I felt a new emotion; conflict. Would it be disrespectful to walk up and take a peek? Who would notice? Who would care? I heard my mother saying her good-byes and then, “Steve, let’s go”. A voice in my head whispered, “now”.
I stood and began walking towards the coffin, weaving my way through the collection of empty wooden chairs. My eyes were fixed and I could feel my heart beating. I could see the folded hands. They were so small. Again my mother called, louder this time, “Steve, come on”. Ignoring her, and now standing beside the coffin, I looked inside.
I just stood there, staring, frozen. It was a child, a girl, my age. She was wearing a white dress, she had blonde hair, and there was a white flower in her hands. I looked at her chest to see if it would move, but there was no breath, nothing. She looked as if she could wake up at any moment, yet she remained still, silent, in solemn repose.
I wanted to say something, anything, but what? I could have said I was sorry for wanting to see a dead person, or how sorry I was that she was the dead person. The novelty was over. Now I felt like an imposter, ashamed, like I had committed some sin. Mostly though, I felt guilt. I knew that in a few minutes, I was going home to play, to grow up, and to live my life. She was going outside to be buried, to be dead, forever.
I can’t explain why it hit me so hard then or why I feel this sorrow now, or if the grief I feel is on her behalf, or mine. It was forty years ago. I was just a kid, with no emotional stake in the death of that little girl. Yet the experience, and the image, has been with me my entire life, those small hands.