Gone

I can feel them watching me. Like vultures, just waiting to swoop in and comfort poor ol' me. It's annoying, touching, and I'm afraid to move because they might take it as an opening to utter those meaningless phrases so many others have already told me.

They're sorry, babe. Sorry that your gone and sorry that I'm suffering and sorry for themselves, even though they don't know you. Not like I know you. Sorry. Sorry it hurt, sorry it still hurts. So sorry, darling.

My mother said time will heal it. What a load of crock. I've seen my grandmother when she thinks noone is watching. She cries and holds Granpa's picture to her heart. It has been seven years since he died. Seven years and she's still bleeding. You've only been dead three days. How long will I bleed before I run dry?

They talk about you. Talk about how you were, as if they can't feel you anymore. It's like you don't exist. You're a chapter gone, babe, and they're ready to turn the page. But, really, you're a book. Page after page of comforting words and thoughts and dark eyes.

They keep touching me. My arm, my shoulder. Patting me on the back and muttering they're sorry. They hug me and I hug back. I don't know what else to do. Rejection is just as good an opening as seeking comfort. I wish they'd stop. I wish they'd start leaning on each other instead of expecting me to fall.

The funeral is winding down now. The closing words of the preacher sound almost bored. Can't blame the guy, really. I wonder how many times he has said this prayer. How many times has he laid an understanding hand on the arm of a mother?

And, dear God, your mother. She can't stop crying. The tough, blunt woman who told me once that she'd break my arms if I broke your heart can't, won't, and maybe shouldn't stop weeping into her tissue. It'd break my heart if there was anything left of it to break.

The prayer's done, babe. This is it. We mourners will leave and some faceless people will bury you. Gone beneath six feet of dirt and worms. That's you, babe. There'll be at least six feet between us for the rest of my life. No more talking, no more dancing in the headlights of your beatup, junky car that you were so proud of. No more watching your hand, calloused and strong, slide across my bare skin in the moonlight. No more.

Oh, God. No more of you and no more of us. Gone. All gone. I'm crying, babe. Someone's reaching for me, holding me. The smile that made me notice you in the first place and the irrational fear that you'd find someone better than me. Gone.

There's still a piece of my heart to break, after all.