For days I drove. All roads of the neighboring communities all hours of the night. Hundreds if not thousands of miles were logged in an attempt to distance myself yet stay close. To escape yet be there if needed. Most drives were taken alone. I would stop and get the biggest coffee I could at Sheetz at 1 am. I would go to Wal-Mart and play video games at midnight. (I hate video games) I would sit on my girlfriends couch and stare, cry, or talk incessantly as a result of the nights coffee intake. I was the scared and frantic prisoner of my own mind and circumstances.
At the viewing I shook countless hands as I stood in awe of the thousands of people who showed up to pay their respects. People my Pap had installed carpet for, built shelves, lended a helping hand, or even simply showed respect. They came to repay the favor as best they now could. Family, friends, my friends parents all tied their ties, waited their turn, bowed their head, shook my hand, said a few words, and went on. My dad sat in a wheelchair at the end of the line reeling in pain from his own injury. My mom and her sisters split duty standing in line, getting glasses of water, consoling their mother, and tending to the handshakes of the crowd. I was on my own.
The entire scene seemed ridiculous to me. A dead body in a box. A thousand people crammed in a room. None of which want to actually be there. My blood pressure would peak and valley. I would scan the room looking for an escape other than the single door entrance and exit. I sweat and angered at the thought of shaking one more damn hand and faking a smile when all I wanted to do was scream “get the fuck out of here, you don’t even know!” I thought no one was suffering like I was. That no one in the room lost what I did. These feelings were obviously extreme and based directly to my emotional involvement and perspective but none the less I could not shake them. I never swayed but this was the moment I snapped.
The night was filled with driving, coffee, and the looming thought of an unwritten eulogy that I was to deliver the following day. I pulled my car along a crick side got out and stood and cried. I stood there till my hands went numb from the winter cold. I contemplated not moving but eventually found myself back in the car driving home and brainstorming. I sat at my computer desk and scrawled out a sloppy, caffeine laced two page “letter” to my Pap which would serve as my final words to him in church the next morning.
I hated the church. I hated carrying the casket. I hated the car ride. I hated the looks people gave. I hated the letter I wrote. Most of all I hated the fact that I knew before I even stood up to read, that I wouldn’t even shed a tear. The letter, the day, the burial meant nothing but brokenness to me. As we walked to the cemetery all I can remember thinking was “damn are my ears cold.” In the stinging January wind the pain in my ears was all I had to remind me that I was still alive. I could feel. But all I could feel was pain.
The green Astroturf that lay around the hole in the ground made me want to throw up as I thought about the irony of trying to use fake grass to dress up a January burial. At this point someone probably prayed. I think my grandma was holding my hand but honestly I have no idea. I watched snow blow across a distant hillside, wished there were deer out, thought about how much my ears hurt, got angry that there was no grave marker, and fantasized of getting as far away as I could.
Let me tell you…I did.
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