Today, I found myself sitting on my hands rocking in the middle of a half-empty parking lot on a street corner downtown outside of a funeral home. It was one of those moments where I wasn’t entirely inside of myself. I could see my head, my body from above. I could see the cars passing on the street; I could hear the bumps of the decked-out SUVs. Everyone’s life is going on and my mother’s has just stopped. People were going to dinner and walking to buy a Mountain Dew. Some girls passed by on the sidewalk and they couldn’t have not noticed me, but they didn’t look. Or maybe I just wasn’t paying attention.

The day was like planning a birthday party. There were things to do. Things to pick up. People to greet. At the airport earlier, people had flowers and balloons. A handful of military men had just come home. People were taking pictures. I watched Christine and Micam walk out of the gate behind a private with a clean look and a crew-cut and immediately it became clear of how much Micam had grown in the last couple of months. His eyes lit up as to say ‘daddy’ and it was enough to make the day feel like just a normal visit. Chris carried him with her eyes red and puffy. She looked relieved that she was finally here. She packed Thursday, anticipating that I would tell her to come sooner. This flight was booked weeks ago. She missed Mom by 2 days. I don’t know if she’ll ever get over that.

We said nothing. Chris’s mom said even less. We got in the car and we started to drive back to the house and I had to fight not to call Mom to let her know that they’d got in safely. Dad called. My cell says Mom. I’ll change that tomorrow. I’ll change a lot of things tomorrow.

Moments later, Chris was in her passenger seat, next to me and we wouldn’t touch in fear that we’d melt away. We got out of the airport roads, and she put her hand over mine on the gear shift and then, I started my breathing-crying thing while driving. Heavy sighs, no tears — just that boundary wall threatening to break. I had to keep it together as long as possible, for what reason I wasn’t sure. I wouldn’t look at her, just her hand on mine.

The trip to Welsheimer was an adventure. Dad and Jill and Dorie and Nicky piled into Dad’s car and Chris and Micam and me piled into mine. I heard Jill yell when she found that her Montero’s battery was dead (what the day) but I wasn’t entirely sure what was going on at that moment. I just followed suit, trying to get to the building, driving down Hickory and getting really confused when they didn’t turn in to the funeral home I thought we were going to. The one with the parking lot that I was panicking in 7 years ago before I had to go next door and speak in front of 70 people waiting for me to tell them what to do. When Mom was calling to find out where I was, why I was late, and to make sure I was coming. Of course, I was - I was just a little flustered - but, now that was so long ago. I called Jill. Yeah, we were going to the one downtown. They got a little ahead of us because I was dragging behind. I remembered that some other funeral homes in the area have been using trash bags, instead and ganging remains for cremation - I told Chris that I wondered how inappropriately they’ll handle - but then I stopped. She didn’t look pleased. I couldn’t help but wonder.

We got Micam unstrapped and walked up the ramp (and I noticed it was a ramp and not steps) and then we were greeted by the smell of the place and a blond woman with a bright, sweet smile. Like the smell - sickly sweet, with a hint of old people. But, she wasn’t that old. She offered to take the coats (that we weren’t wearing) and I spied a break in her steely exterior as she realized that I realized that she should have strayed from her script. And then we walked into a large gathering room where my mom was on display like a buffet meal and I had to look away from the ornate tracked lighting that shone on, then refracted sharply from the casket.

Christine walked up closer asking Micam if he could see his grandma. I wanted to say no - that wasn’t her, but I couldn’t speak a word in fear of what I’d actually say. It seemed like a crowd was in the room, but it was just my family, and the walls were closing in and as I walked up closer to peer inside, Mom looked over at me and blinked as to ask what I was still doing up. Paul just left, Mom - we were working late on the trailer. And before I even realized what I was doing, I was yelling oh fuck repeatedly while running out the door.

Dad was the first one out. He found me on the ground in the parking lot watching the girls pass by while catching the scent of the fried chicken shop just down the way. I said dryly that I was sorry and he said not to worry about it. That doesn’t look like Mom, he said. I said no, they have her made up like a prostitute. I saw her blink, I said. I know I didn’t but somewhere I think I did and I can’t handle all of it at once so I will sit here until I figure it out. You sit here as long as you need to. And then he stood there just watching me to make sure that I wouldn’t explode into pieces.

A hour minute later, Christine was there behind me. She sat down and she put her arms around me and her little green sweatshirt with the stress marks on the sleeves was like the home I’d been exiled from for months, now coming back in a heartbeat. She knew exactly what I saw, she said. She almost saw it too. I wasn’t the only one that would only sneak off to bed after checking to see if she was still breathing. And then I lost it, tears bursting. All the while really wanting BBQ and trying to find the courage to go back inside after having just ran out screaming explicatives. Go back inside, Chris said. She’d stay with me until I was ready to come in. She’d never seemed so adult as she did in that moment.

I peeled myself off the ground and went back inside with Christine next to me. Micam was with someone - I could hear him cooing and gurgling the way he does, but there was no way that I was walking back into that room. I told Chris to take her time and the blond woman with the sweet smile invited me to sit with her in the lobby area. Her eyes were locked on me like they were chiseled from marble, as though I was a suicide risk and she was my only salvation.

I’m sorry for your loss, she said.

I’m sorry that I’m now hearing that for the 142nd time in the last 72 hours.

I’m sorry that I ran screaming out of your establishment. I can’t imagine that happens often.

She smiled.

Mom’s been sick for a very long time. Before going up to bed, I’d check on her and sometimes it would rouse her and she’d look over me and ask what I was doing. In my head, I saw that. It didn’t compute, so I freaked.

She said nothing.

But, you’ve done a fantastic job here. We all appreciate it (remind me to never use your makeup artist).

6:31 pm

tags: chris, funeral, home, micam, mom