At a Funeral

During the service I kept running over memories of Mr. B. I remembered AB’s family went to Disneyland on vacation and they took me with them so AB would be able to have fun with a friend instead of having to babysit his younger brothers. I was honored to go. I thought about Mr. B coming up to AB and describing a hand signal he had devised, like a third base coach giving the steal gesture to the runner. I don’t even remember what it was supposed to signify now. AB seemed a little embarrassed at the time, as if he didn’t want me to think he was a dork for having a bunch of encoded gestures as part of a secret language he shared with his dad. I didn’t think it was dorky. I thought it was cool. AB and his dad, they had a bond. They were buddies. They had their own little world. I wanted to tell AB about that. I wanted to tell AB about a lot of things. Music I had found. Games I had played. I wanted to show him pictures of Callie and ask about his baby. I wanted to find out where he’d met his fianceé, when they were getting married and what kind of work he was doing. It wasn’t the right time.

The service was, as these things go, beautiful. AB stood up and spoke quickly, trying to get through a couple of prepared notes, one he’d written, another his mom had put together. His rapid-fire delivery was peppered with deep, heaving breaths as he struggled to stay in control of his surfacing emotions. I felt for him, but I was proud of him. He did a wonderful job paying tribute to his dad. The minister stumbled through the benedictions, clearly unfamiliar with the man he was trying in vain to honor. It wasn’t appropriate to feel so, but I was angry with the man for mispronouncing AB’s gestating daughter’s name. I didn’t care for the way he said things like “I guess he fell in love.” I didn’t think the pastor should be guessing. I felt he should have done some more research. The least he could do was worked to understand the man he was soon to bury. I wondered if AB even noticed.

After the service we stood around, waiting for a chance to meet up with the family. I had to get back to work, which I thought was a crummy excuse for leaving so soon. But part of me didn’t want to stay, to wear out my welcome. I hugged AB again when the coast was clear. I babbled about the few memories that had come up during the service. AB seemed to humor me, but here I was monopolizing his time. I was trying to be supportive, to let him know that his dad had impacted my life, perhaps in a small way, but not an insignificant one. I don’t know how it came across. He smiled at me, and there was pain in his eyes. He said he missed me. I assured him I felt the same way. He suggested I contact him on Facebook and I told him I would. Some other people got tired of having me overstay my welcome with AB and shouldered me aside. I understood.

I lurked uncomfortably near AB’s mom, and finally got a chance to speak to her. I said hello and she asked, “And you are…?” It should have been expected, after all I had hardly recognized AB’s brothers. Time, kind or unkind, has an effect on people. I told her my name and her eyes widened, but she smiled and there was some pain in her eyes, too. I tried to tell myself it was just normal: She had lost a husband, AB had lost a dad. There was perhaps something in the way she said, “It’s been a long time,” though, that I thought maybe meant some tiny part of that pain was meant for me. I told myself to stop being so narcissistic and offered my limp condolences, and introduced her to my wife. She thanked us for coming in that robotic way people do at weddings and funerals because they don’t have much else to say but blithe politeness. We drifted away as others moved in to be more comforting, more supportive, more welcome. I didn’t care that there was a certain misery brewing in my guts, suggesting that I had more than I wanted to admit to do with the long period of silence that had grown into a gaping chasm of communication and distance between the family I once knew and the relative strangers that we were now. After all, what’s some guilt over poor relationship management compared to the loss of a father, of a spouse?

We ran into D on the way out. He looks basically the same, fit and trim with a fashionable suit that made my wardrobe-by-Target slacks and dress shirt feel crass and inappropriate by comparison. The crow’s feet webbing away from the corners of his eyes suggest the years since I’ve seen him have been kind, filled with enough smiles and laughter to keep his fiery spirit nourished and thriving. But the conversation was stilted, stiff. We talked small about kids and parenthood, neighborhoods and commutes. We laughed nervously and I tried to resist casting my eyes down at my shoes. “You have to get back to work?” he asked, and it stung like an accusation though his tone was neutral. I mumbled something affirmative and felt chastened. I’m still doing it, I thought, still making excuses. Still finding reasons to not be around. We finally broke away and headed out for the car.

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