funeral

these are quiet mornings. no. secret mornings. afternoons. the sun isn't quite shining, but it's warm, abnormally warm. i'm looking through smoke at a still, quiet, empty apartment.

friday night i'm walking through a cold east liberty night to the church. i am walking down baum boulevard past the library and the fountain, i am watching the skyline change and shift from different angles. for some reason, i am thinking about the night that i played chess, in high school, at the shadow lounge with jordan. i still don't know how to play chess - but he tried to teach me. i wonder what we talked about that night. i am walking into the church and i hear you before i see you. as i approach the room, i see you standing there. you are tall, your hair is short, and i mistake you for your oldest sister. after knowing you for 20 years, i actually confuse who you are with someone else. i look at you and for the first time i see someone other than a sort of awkward, tall 12 year old with braces. instead, i see a beautifully tall, strong woman. i am watching the slide show of pictures of your mother and family, and every photograph holds memories for me. of when you looked a certain way, when your sister went through her tori amos phase and covered all four walls of her bedroom with posters, when your mother wore that one floral dress, or the blue raincoat she wore everywhere, the table cloth that always covered your kitchen table. these are your memories that i am remembering too. i am remembering who i wanted to be, and who i was, and the way that these images and moments of your childhood and adolescence helped to form a longing, in me, to grow up.

at the funeral, the next day, i sit next to emily and margot who hold hands the whole way through the service. i am surrounded by years, here. next to emily's brother, and in front of my parents, and here i sit, known. the awkwardness and confusion of being 25 seems utterly ridiculous and of no value here. listening to you talk about your mother is like reading a script of your life, as you are reading, you are coming to terms with yourself, your past, your mother and your family. and in a way, i am doing the same thing. to be so close to a family for so long is to see their successes and failures, strengths and weaknesses almost as closely as your own family's flaws. i am, also, making peace with your family, your mother's quiet but strong nature, and even the way that you and i related to one another for so many years. i am watching my perception of a person i've known for 20 years change and shift. i am not feeling the sadness of loss, i am not mourning with you, i am not even thinking about if my own mother had died - i can only think about how tall and beautiful you look. i can only think about how proud your mother would be of you.