❝she was the girl, who bit the horizon, who peeled the stars from the sky and put them on her tongue, the girl who was hungry for the universe, who craved magic and saw the broken boy for who he truly was- a broken boy.❞
Beca...
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Chapter 52
"Nobody Said It Was Easy"
Jem
The funeral and the wake was held on a Tuesday.
Everybody came up to me, muttering pity in their condolences, shaking my hand, hugging me, patting me. All of my relatives from my Dad's side- the ones that never even bothered to show up for Thanksgiving or invite my Dad for Thanksgiving after my mother had left him- showed up at his funeral and wake, much to my surprise, and they all acted as if they had never shunned me and my father for Thanksgiving or Christmas or for fuck's sake New Years, recalling on fond memories to revel in them or wiping away their fake tears, as if somehow that raise them on the pedestal of 'good person'.
I had only one thought that obliterated everything else when it came to this: fucking assholes.
But I didn't let them bother me too much. It all became very fixed, very methodical, just say please and thank yous, and hmms and oh yes, tolerate and put up with all their irrevocably fake bullshit then avoid them as much as possible and retreat back to the lonely house. Some of my relatives have offered me a place to stay- shocker since they didn't even bother to offer a place for me at their dinner table during any holidays in the past year- but I declined, saying I was okay on my own.
Okay. It's funny how one word could hide so much.
The funeral was held on a Tuesday. There was a minister, who spoke about what a great man my father was and how he would be dearly departed into heaven- which was strange considering the minster was Catholic and my father was a Protestant. There was no doubt my Aunt Lina written all over it- she was a rigorous Catholic, who believed we should all fast on Lent and damn the homosexuals to hell.
I adjusted the collar of the stiff black button down, pulling on it to let some of the January air in. It was a shirt I haven't worn since my middle school graduation. My mother picked it out. My dad took pictures. A pang pierced into me. My dad.
After the speech adjourned and the crowd was left to mingle and exchange small talk, I drifted away from my family and began wandering down the hill towards the cemetery. The grass was sprinkled with leftover snow from yesterday's storm so it crunched with slight snaps of icicles being split apart under the weight of me and the soles of my one fancy pair of black polished shoes. The coldness clung to my cheeks and I couldn't be bothered to chase them away by rubbing them or creating heat by cupping my hands to my lips and sighing.
Headstones defined in symmetrical, vertical lines told snippets of the dead's stories. My eyes skimmed past them, catching namesand phrases like loving husband every in between, as my legs carried themselves down the path. I stopped eventually and stared at the dead wilted roses someone had left on the marble vase by somebody's grave. The grass on the buried soil was long and unkempt like a knitted ball of light green strings, its tips white with frost. The headstone was made out of limestone with golden writing etched into it: Here lies Thomas Keating, a man.
