2006-01-16
funeral
I didn't really know the girl. She was a few years ahead of me. Someone said that her boyfriend had just dumped her. All I could remember was the jean jacket she wore all the time. On the last day, her locker was plastered with pink balloons.
When Mama told me about the car crash, it sounded like a TV movie of the week. The girl bought a six pack at the gas station. Then she plowed into a tree.
When I asked, "Was it suicide?" Mama said, "Don't talk like that."
At the funeral, I sat three rows from the front. Heaps of sinister-looking white roses spilled across the altar. I got whiff of them slowly dying.
The minister came out in a suit and sunglasses and played Green Day's "Time of Your Life" (aka "Good Riddance") on a dusty boombox. I guess he didn't pay attention to the lyrics.
That's when I lost it. My eyes burned as I reached for a Kleenex, balled at the bottom of my purse. As the song faded away, I could hear her mother crying--long, phlegmy sobs that rattled the church. Then I lost it again.
My friend says she giggles at funerals. She gets so nervous, she can't stop. Maybe that's why the little boy was laughing in the back row. I stared across the aisles and saw faces I recognized from school. Maybe her ex-boyfriend was there too. It was a class reunion--everybody in their darkest clothes, decked in sunglasses. I'd left mine at home.
They put her picture on a music stand, along with a poster that said, "We love you." A couple people stood and mumbled into the microphone. The mother, dressed in day-glo pink (her daughter's favorite color) talked about how much she loved double cheeseburgers and fries. When I'm dead, I hope that somebody remembers more than just my favorite foods.
As we filed out of the church, the girl's little sisters wrote messages on pink balloons with magic marker. I watched the balloons lift into the sky as if in slow-motion. "They'll probably land at the mall," said a boy in a baseball cap. I could've punched his smiling face.
They said the girl had a big heart. They didn't talk about her bad grades. They didn't mention the car crash, the six pack of beer, or fight with the ex-boyfriend. Maybe dying isn't so bad, if people remember who they want you to be, rather than what you were.
f-i-n at 4:11 p.m.