Comfort in the Casket

Ever since my mom passed away, 14 years ago, I have a really hard time going to funerals.

A room full of strangers is hard for an introvert as social anxiety creeps in.

Fortunately, Brian was always there, by my side.

One hand on my back to support me.

Held me up when I could not, hug me when I cried, carry the conversation when I was quiet.

We had known each other since we were kids, thirty-five years in all.

Nineteen years by my side.

My best friend.

My life partner.

My ride or die.

We were each other’s stability.

We went through a lot together.

By each other’s sides for the death of my mom, my grandpa, a few good friends, my cat.

Through the passing of his dad, his mom, family friends, family of friends.

By each other’s sides through the cancers of all of the above, and even your own.

You had just made it to five years in remission, cancer free.

It was April 11th, two long weeks later.

There was a wake and a funeral I had to be at.

I was anxious, stressed, and overwhelmed.

Surrounded by a constant influx of people when all I wanted was a moment alone.

The receiving line at a wake, an introvert’s nightmare.

How am I going to get through this?

I do not think I can.

I only have one source of comfort in times like these.

Nothing and no one is making it better, they cannot.

I seem to have lost my executive functioning in the last two weeks.

I do not remember anything at all, I cannot think.

There is only one person who can comfort me.

There is only one single person I want by my side in these treacherous times.

What do you do when the only person who can comfort you is the one in the casket?

How do I get through this without you Brian?

I do not think I can.

You in your fancy new suit.

You bought it just six months before, for your mom’s funeral.

You only got to wear it twice.

Her funeral, and yours.

Hundreds of people came to pay their respects.

To say goodbye.

You would have loved it, all those people together.

The whole time I stood there, for hours I stood there, person after person.

Just a few feet from you.

Six short months earlier, me, you, and Jenny with our puffy eye patches, getting ready to lay your mom to rest.

It is just me here now, with puffy eyes.

It is weird now in hindsight, that your mom bought two gravesites before she died.

That there was an extra space, next to your parents.

Apparently waiting for you.

It is weird now, in hindsight, that your mom’s favorite animal, the owl, kept coming to you in the six months since her passing.

It is weird now, in hindsight, that I noticed the crows were still hanging around after your mom, three of them, a murder of crows they call it.

I thought they should have gone by then.

They should have gone with her, like they did with my mom and grandpa.

It is weird now, in hindsight, that you started to see 444 regularly in those last six months.

We looked up the number meaning, angels all around.

That made you uneasy, I did not understand why then, I guess I do now.

I love the burial; it is a beautiful ritual.

But I hate it too.

Just six months before I stood there next to you.

Now.

Now I am here again, but now you are there.

An extra, empty grave no more.

As always, I would love your comments, feedback, or stories.