“No, we are not mourning, we are rejoicing a life that was well spent.”
I rolled my eyes, and cast a glance to my friend to verify if what the preacher had said sounded as silly to her as it did to me. But she seemed unaffected by it, and so I turned, and pretended the words hadn’t had me flurring in annoyance.
I looked around observing the attendees of the wake, half of them I was sure had never met the deceased (I still feel a reluctance referring to one who had only a couple months ago been alive as deceased), and staring solemnly like the words that were been spoken wasn’t eighty percent ass kiss, and 20 percent honest talk.
Somewhere along the line of a handling the microphone over for testimonies of his live deeds from the perspective of a select-known acquaintances from the various works of his life, did I take my time to observe the proceeding.
Seemingly bunch of liars.
Maybe it’s not in my place to judge, but I couldn’t help that I did. I had heard so much of the his sufferings, to buy any crap they were saying, painting up praises because they had nothing substantial to say as regards their relationship to him. My mind drifted, and I imagined people who hated me or ignored pretty much my existence pretend to have cared about me. I even thought up a plan to maybe plan my own burial, and give out strict invitations; assign my eulogy to close friends, something like what Gus did in The fault in our stars.
It was evident in the tone of their voices that they didn’t know much about him, scrap that, care much to know even a little about him, and so they painted up colourful little lies, that bellied their own insentient facial reactions.
The street coordinator.
Who of all people doesn’t know of how much fight a resident and a street overseer can get into? and how much people will; if it is in their power, ignore the street monthly meetings, because of the unnecessary bills required to be paid and the show of power the formers exude at all times, hanging like a banner of some merit award, that they are in whatever position they are in to give out orders.
I tuned him out too.
The next hymn was announced to be read. Each was done after a scripture was read, and a person was called to pay respect to him- to me all but one (his nephew) was undeserving to speak.
Just the first line of the third hymn printed on the thin sheet of paper, and I felt the tears drops. I folded the sheet and swore silently to myself, to keep my tear gland in its place but I couldn’t, and so the tears ran down my cheeks, and using the back of my hand, I caught them before they fell off or before people wondered the relationship I shared with my friend’s late dad.
I tried in vain to blot out the wordings, to stop my brain from processing them, I glanced to my friend and saw she had her scarf over her head, in tears too.
My throat tightened, and it hurt like hell.
I wasn’t crying because I was close to him, or because I personally felt his loss. Not that that wouldn’t have been hypocritical on my part as I never even met him. I was crying from the inevitability of death, and how one can just suddenly cease to exist.
I was crying because my friend wasn’t going to see her dad, and I couldn’t and daren’t imagine what that would feel like. I was crying because the lyrics of the song spoke the words no one was willing to say (especially the preacher), that he was gone, and gone forever, forever until the end though.
Until the world ends, and Heaven calls.
I am a Christain, I believe in External life.
I was crying because it was just the wake keep, and my friend would feel the finality of it when her dad was being laid to rest in the grave.
I was crying because I realized I wasn’t afraid of death, but I was terrified of leaving everything and everyone.
I stood up from my staring position and thought how much it would affect her mother, and I thought with dismay how many people wouldn’t feel his leaving impact because he might not have given to them as financially as they had wanted.
I looked up at his son, who was too busy whispering in the ears on one of the servers, and calling out orders for the stewards who were meant to mind the proceedings.
I tried hard not to think about how many people in the wake keep had no knowledge of whom they had come to mourn, and wouldn’t have cared less if the man was still alive.
I looked at the fair, shivering weather beaten man, who looked more concerned at the veins protruding from his hands, his phalanges made prominent by the thinning flesh on his hands, as If realizing he had become old, and might have well been far older than the man he had come to pay his last respect to.
I looked at the black short ladies, clad in too short traditional attires and too bright lipstick.
My eyes glazed to the first with a gum in her month and a phone in her hands, chewing the gum, and mouthing the words when she felt she knew the wordings that were being said.
I looked at the woman, wiping the invisible tears from her eyes, dabbing at her lids to maybe stimulate a swelling or redness.
I realized I was sitting at the wrong position, observing much more than I ought to have been.
I picked up the thing sheet of type hymns, and read all but the one that had made me cry.
The grace was shared, and I turned to leave, just as soft drinks, and snacks were been shared, and the people who had only just been wiping tears, where pointing and calling out to the people who served the particular foods they wanted.