My Brother’s Funeral

Wake up. Black tights. Black dress. Black boots. No make up. Not worth it. Black pea coat. A robot-like emptiness.

Check.

When somebody you love dies, you have to think of everything in steps. Otherwise, one thing becomes two things and two things become the world and the world cracks like an old clay pot dropped from a building. One foot. Then the other. Check.

Walk up to the dead body, alone. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Cry. Stop. Stare.

Register that my brother looks like a transgender geisha. There are no earrings. He always wears his earrings. Touch his hands. Feel his stomach for the autopsy scar. I search for signs that this is real. This is him. For some reason there is truth in the sloppy scar. I find it, and for a brief moment, I want to puncture it. I want to put my hand inside of him and dig for the warmth through all this cold. Breath. Remove hand. Touch his hair. Contemplate taking a piece in case I ever get the chance to clone him. Stand up. Walk to the seats for the grieving family. Wait for the others. Check.

One hand. Two hands. Cigarette hands. Old people hands. Cold hands like Billy’s. Black hands. White hands. Dirty hands. Hands of workers. Hands of mothers. Every hand that has ever existed since the cavemen touches mine and says, “I’m sorry for your loss.” I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for your fucking loss. But why? You didn’t kill him; he killed himself. Keep my mouth shut. Remain polite. Check.

Then sleep comes.

Wake up. Black tights. Black dress. Black boots. No make up. Not worth it. Black pea coat. A robot-like emptiness.

Check.

The bill is $8800. $8800 to touch a dead body and put it in the ground. $8800 to watch some priest swing incense over the casket when we all know very well my brother smoked Newports. $8800 to write my own eulogy, only to have the priest take my words and claim them as his own. $8800 to tell the world he’s never coming back. $8800 to decompose with dignity. $8800 paid. In full. Check.

Sister. Mom. Living brother. Dad. In laws. Limo. Alcohol. Check.

Printed eulogy. Shot of whisky. Check.

The priest says my name, and even though I know I’m first to speak, I’m startled. I resort back to lists.

One foot. The other. One foot. The other. Three steps. The podium. Check.

My voice sounds foreign, like somebody who is unsure they are using the right word when speaking a new language. Take a breath. Look at the paper. Read the words. Mean them. Check.

Talk about our relationship. Talk about his relationship with my mother. With his wife. His stepchildren. Talk to the crowd. Check.

I get to the most important part of the speech. “His death does not stop these things from being.” His death does not stop these things from being. He has not stopped being. He is my brother. He is your friend. Your family. He is. I can’t tell you what death is; I can only tell you what it is not. Death is not finite. Comfort all, if only for a frozen moment in time. Check.

And then the pallbearers sweep him away. Seven grown men with storms in their eyes. Seven men with bellies that swell and hold, each man afraid that breathing will release that storm. We follow like his entourage. My sister and mother, two Jackie O’s in a classless world. They seem to have figured out the secret of the list. One foot. The other. One foot the other. We all check.

Sister. Mom. Living brother. Dad. In laws. Limo. Alcohol. Check.

Arrive at the gravesite. Take another shot of whisky. Make my sister laugh. Make my mother laugh. Try and fail to make my brother laugh. Doors open. We get out. One foot. Two feet. 14 feet total. All cold and numb and moving on their own accord. Checks for everyone.

Words are said that nobody hears. We are each given a rose to decompose alongside my brothers rotting body. I give him my empty nip. I hear him laugh and I laugh.

Couldn’t save me some?

Not where you’re going.

Have conversations in my head with my dead brother. Check.

Snow falls in all the beauty that the famous poets of past and present have written about. It falls slowly, like powder from a soap box in an old movie. The fragility of each flake is not lost on me. It comes, impresses, touches our hearts, and melts back into the earth. Gone too soon.

My brother is snowing on us all, and nobody else can see it.

And just like that, he leaves us, but not before sending the sun. “It’ll be okay,” he says.

It’ll be okay.

I know.

Find hope in the sunshine. Check.