(memory in threes)
1. First crush. He handed me a crayon and smiled. It was meant to be, at least until he moved up to the third grade.
The rush of kids was amazing. Scissors, crayons, and glue sticks were being tossed around like confetti. We were all smashed into a basement room for Sunday school, but it didn’t matter. Second-graders could have the thrill of a lifetime in a cardboard box. I saw Tim, who was vigorously coloring his picture of Jesus Feeding the Five Thousand, and waved. He handed me a blue violet crayon, and dropped his boyish smirk right into my lap.
2. First death. The maze of wires and tubes ran around my grandmother’s body. She opened her eyes once, then never again.
We walked into the room that smelled like antiseptic and felt like heartbreak. Nurses rushed around, sometimes stumbling into each other and murmuring soft “I’m sorrys”. My aunt was crying and holding onto my grandma’s pale hand. I felt an arm around my shoulder as I stared towards my grandmother’s rising and falling chest, only being kept alive by a beast of a machine.
They say the hardest part of death is the funeral.
But it’s not.
The hardest part is grabbing a cold hand that used to be full of life.
Turning away.
Leaving the room, knowing you won’t ever see the person again...
3. First heartbreak. He told me about his girlfriend during a marshmallow roasting session on a camping trip. I walked back to my tent and cried till I couldn’t see the stars anymore.
Casey had just finished plopping a marshmallow on his s’more when it all came crashing down into one emotional mess. “My girlfriend loves these…” he said while stuffing the whole dang concoction into his mouth.
I felt a ringing in my ears, “Your girlfriend?”
“Yeah!”, Casey grinned. “S’mores are her favorite. Bummer she didn’t come, huh?”
I felt an unfamiliar sinking in my chest as I rose to leave, more akin to that of being hit by a truck. Apparently the wonderfully adventurous seventh-grade escapades during the last three days of our multi-family camping trip had no effect on him (giant water balloon fights, river rafting, hikes into territory that clearly said “Do Not Trespass” but heck, we did it anyway…)
“Screw boys.” I groaned walking back to my tent.
I tried to look angry, but tears flooding down cheeks is usually a dead giveaway.
The Unfortunate Certainty of Dying
Flowers aren't nearly as pretty when they're covered in rain.
Cemetery stillness begins to choke my words as I somehow tried to accurately describe my grandfather in the allotted time slot given for remembrance. My family sat before me, dabbing their eyes with crumpled tissues. Probably Kleenex, I thought.
The words I speak seemed empty, and even though my relatives seemed moved, I didn't feel hardly anything. Not really. At least, not the way I wanted to.
The times of being a child were gone. I had to grow up now. Death has a curiously harsh way of doing that.
"He was a great friend,"
I look at my aunt. She's smiling slightly.
"Always lightened a room,"
Mom is nodding me on.
"He was so involved in everything I did."
My uncle is crying now.
A breeze picks up. Cold, stabbing air hits my lungs as I take a breath. It almost felt like a moment straight out of Anne of Green Gables. I actually think I heard birds "sing" (which always seemed like a cliche thing to do, birds only chirp in my opinion). I clear my throat, then say a few words I don't feel and sit down. The female funeral worker gives a pathetic little smile as she joins the family with quiet applause. It's all forced and fake, I know it is. But I push my pride down to my toes and remain silent.
Life is an odd thing to begin with, but it becomes even more trivial when you see someone lose theirs. Every small thing you've worried about or argued over seems irrelevant. I want so desperately to feel deeply the words I am saying, but I can't. All I can comprehend is a numb ache. Incredibly annoying, believe me. I'm supposed to cry! I'm supposed to have cookie-cutter funeral emotions. Cue death. Cue rain. Cue tears. The fact that none of this is happening begins to bother my psychologically. I must be a depressed old woman that only laughs if the annoying teenager slips on his skateboard. I put my hands under my cold thighs and try to keep my thoughts under control.
My uncle starts speaking...which turns out to be the classic tale of Grandpa trying to cut down a tree limb and it accidentally crashing onto his roof. Ah, finesse! A hand squeezes mine, and it's my sister. So we stay that way, holding hands that are like ice, but alive. I register all signs of life and close my eyes to trap them in dotted vision. The flap of a bird's wing. The slow step from a widow visiting her husband's grave. The head of my uncle thrown back in laughter as he wraps up his story.
The caravan of somber faces departs our tent-covered location. The rain doesn't let up, and my aunt asks if I want her umbrella. I say no.
Instead I tilt my head toward the droplets and let it wash over my face, then I turn towards my grandfather's headstone.
My hand moves towards my mouth.
I blow a kiss, not worrying about Grandpa not being able to see it.
He knows.