A/N: Written for a friend, who I miss very much.

Going To Your Funeral

By Emilee Petersmark

Dear Matt--

Today I am getting ready for your funeral.

I stand in front of my wardrobe in my underwear, hair still damp from the shower and skin smelling slightly of coconut from the lotion I'd used. The black dress I've worn for almost all of the other funerals I've attended-- aptly named "The Funeral Dress"-- hangs like an old skin at the back of the closet.

I hold it up to my body and turn toward the mirror. The dress clings limply to my clammy skin and makes me feel as if I am planning to wear a paper bag. The Funeral Dress sags lifelessly at my hips and breasts; I've lost weight since the last time I've worn it, but this doesn't bother me much as the dress had never fit properly in the first place.

This is one of the reasons I had chosen it as my usual funeral apparel. It makes me look unobtrusive. When I am hired to sing at funeral masses, The Funeral Dress makes me look professional, serious, and older.

But today, The Funeral Dress doesn't seem appropriate. The dress is an article of my work clothes and your funeral isn't simply business. I hang it back up at the back of the closet, where it lurks like a tired ghost behind my bathrobe.

I can't figure out why appearance is so important to me now. It's not like you will really care what I wear, and I've always hated dressing up. Still, I reach for my nylons and high heels. I want to look nice for your family. I even go so far as to wear makeup.

My arms feel like a robot's arms as I apploy my eyeliner-- a thick black line along my bottom lids. It will run if I cry, so I figure it will be incentive to hold strong during the mass. I don't want to look like a raccoon.

Now I am done up and I feel like someone's doll-- made-up smile, motorized movements, dressed up and lifeless to the real world-- I feel empty and fake, a plastic replica of a real human being. I don't recognize myself when I step back to study myseelf in the mirror.

I watch my reflection like a person watches the great big macaws in the zoo, waiting for one to say something human. My own face stares back listlessly, mouth turned in a slightly-downward line, the sallow skin of my face and the dark circles around my eyes barely hidden by about a pound of makeup. My nose clogs and the backs of my eyes prick uncomfortably. It's time to go.

I still do not feel like myself even as we arrive at the church. We are an hour early, and already the large building is filling with people, swarming through the center isle like black water, waiting to see you at the front of the church.

I take my jacket off as soon as we find a place to sit. The winter coat is the only white in a room full of people in black, and it makes me feel like a pinprick on a black sheet of paper-- a hole.

My mother leans over and asks if I want to go see your family. I shake my head 'no' and stare blankly at my music; I am afraid to see them. If I see them I know I'll cry. But my mother knows better-- she takes my hand and pulls me out of my seat, weaving a path through the sea of black. Distantly, I wonder if these people are wearing their standard funeral attire, or if they picked out a new outfit just for you.

The first person I see is your mother, hovering nervously over the casket. The once-vibrant woman is shaking her head brokenly as she strokes your hair. Her mouth is open, pulled down in the corners in a desperate sob; her nose is running and her tearing eyes are poorly concealed by a pair of expensive sunglasses.

The sunglasses remind me of summers on the beach. All at once they look horrendously out of place.

We wait for her to finish speaking to you before we approach. While we wait I crane my neck around a colorful arrangement of flowers at the foot of your coffin. I can barely see your face. You look very serious, with an exhausted strain in your still expression. My mother nudges me with her elbow and directs me to make the sign of the cross. I feel like some sort of heathen being told of the proper tea-drinking etiquette in London. I make the sign of the cross and say a mental prayer but the motions seem foreign and awkward.

Your father walks your mother towards us with a hand at the crook of her arm. I have never seen him look so old. his balding, grey hair is more noticeable, and there are lines around his tired, bloodshot eyes that I've never seen before.

They say that when you lose a loved one you're forced to grow a little bit. I think they loved you so much hat they did twenty years' worth of aging due to your passing.

Your mom manages a watery smile when she sees me, quickly embracing me as tightly as possible without breaking me. Her shoulders are shaking. She smells like perfume.

"Oh honey," she says in a gravelly, tear-choked voice. "I can't wait to hear that sweet voice."

My throat constricts and I feel sick.

I refuse to look, but I have the wierdest feeling that if I turned to your casket your eyes would be open, boring twin holes into my back.

I turn to your father and try to return his ever-so-slight smile. It seems like an effort for him just to keep his mouth from curving downward, so it's only fair to return the favor. Inwardly, I wonder if my smile looks as plastic as it feels.

"Thank you for doing this," he tells me.

"Thank you for letting me," I reply.

Walking back to my seat I catch your daughter's eye and pass her a wave. She waves back. I make my way over to her and pull her into a hug-- she's gotten tall. The top of her head brushes my chin as I squeeze her skinny shoulders.

"Hey kiddo," I say and immediately feel like a heel. 'Kiddo'? It's okay in casual situations but here it feels lofty and too sweetly sympathetic.

But she just smiles a 9-year-old version of your smile and introduces me to her stuffed lion, Leo.

"He's helping me be brave," she says.

My throat feels like it's on fire and Im sure the whole congregation can here me when I attempt to swallow.

Your son looks just like you. Acts like you, too-- running around the church and letting his curiosity get him into trouble. Your wife's mother chases him diligently, her face stern but not unkind as colds him and pulls him back to his pew.

He has your squinty eyes when he grins. It almost hurts to look at him.

I do not see your wife until the begin closing your casket. She touches your clasped hands and kisses your cold forehead. I wonder if you can feel it. Her face is carefully composed-- she is being strong for Catherine and Little Matthew, and you should be so proud, but it something in me aches to see her so stiff and calm in the wake of your passing.

A man I do not recognize takes the crucifix from above your coffin and places it in the small hands of your daughter. Catherine accepts it numbly and twirls it in her spindly fingers. She looks very lost. Your son does not go over to see you. He sits with his grandmother while a boy his age (presumably a cousin) places an arm around his shoulders. He toys with something red and plastic and swings his feet, face drawn into a somber expression though it is quite clear that he doesn't really know why he's sad.

The lid of your casket clicks shut with audible finality, and I feel like I'm watching the whole scene through a window. Your sisters are covering their red faces with their hands. Your mother is on the verge of hysterics. Your daughter is crying now, gentle, quiet tears-- her aunt cradles her and wipes them from the bridge of her nose.

My eyes burn and my chest constricts with a small hiccupping sob, but I bite my lip to ward off the oncoming tears. All at once I desperately want to stand up and wave my arms, shouting, "Just kidding! He's really alright; you don't have to be sad!" and have the whole situation turn out to be some silly joke. Just once I want to read a newspaper article where it ends with 'and then she woke up and it was all a bad dream. Really, everything is okay.'

But instead, they ended your obituary with the dates of your showing and your funeral.

They wheel your casket down the center isle, and it's time for me to sing. My legs shake as I make my way to the podium, hands turning clammy as I open my music and try to send my mind somewhere else.

"Amazing grace, how sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me..."

I look over the heads of the people that loved you-- I can't bring myself to make eye contact. My voice feels cumbersome in my own throat and I can't tell if I'm on key. I'm probably butchering the hymn.

Five verses and my hands have gone numb. There's a thick feeling in my mouth and I crave cold water.

When I return to my seat the mass begins, and the congregation sings 'Be Not Afraid' while they cover your casket with a linen sheet. It is a song that I have sung countless times, but today I cannot force the sound out of my closed throat. I mouth the words and feel terrible.

The priest is speaking now and I have decided that I don't like him. He speaks like a man who came to my dorm last semester, knocking on every door and trying to sell the girls 20 bottles of Channel perfume.

The church bells ring to mark the hour, and I can hear them under the priest's speech. I pick absently at the lace on the edge of my skirt, counting the dozen tolls that follow.

I sing three more times during the mass. I try to stay alert but all I can think about is the concept of death, and being upset with God. I know I shouldn't-- it's not really His fault. It's the grand scheme of things. this world was designed to be random and often cruel. Great sacrifice in life doesn't always mean equal gain. Your death might have been pointless, accidental and meaningless. You were no martyr. I've accepted this in the best an 18-year-old can manage. And even still, I find myself looking for someone, anyone to blame.

I know you wouldn't want that.

Your cousin gives a moving eulogy. His words describe you perfectly, and I can see you clearly in my mind's eye, doing all the things he says you did. A tear escapes and leaves a black streak of mascara down my cheek. I scrub it away. I stop myself from listening and force my thoughts onto something else. I think of my own funeral. Will it be as heart wrenching as this? I wonder who will give the eulogy and what they'll say-- I decide that I want my roommate to do it. She'll at least be honest and won't sugarcoat anything. I hate it when people do that.

The priest snaps me from my thoughts and points at the podium with his eyes. My movements are mechanical and my voice is raw. I just barely make it through another song without falling over.

When I sit back down I know I won't be able to get back up. My head aches and my ears ring-- if I move, I'll be sick all over the pew. I try to sit as still as possible and keep my chin tucked to my chest. It probably looks like I'm praying rather than trying to staunch the wave of nausia plaguing my stomach.

The mass is over and I stand up to leave with the rest of the congregation. My stomach flip-flops. I sit back down.

I sit for a long time. The church is empty, save for those taking down the elaborate floral arrangements and turning everything back to what they beleive is a state of normalcy. It feels hollow to me.

I am still upset with God. Even as I write this there is this sense of injustice in my heart that I can't ignore. Why you? Why not me? Why take away a good person and leave a less-than-honorable one? You were needed. You are needed. Your mother needs you. Your wife need you. Your children fucking need you and because of Him you aren't around.

It's just not fair.

I think about it and I feel sick and confused.

Things will never be normal, not for them. Not for me. I feel a million years older, and I am so tired of feeling hopeless.

I do not know why I am writing this. I guess I just want you to know how your death affected those who loved you. We miss you here. We're all a mess. It's strange how a group of people cannot function properly when you remove just one member of their ranks. One person dissapears and suddenly the whole system is fucked.

It will be a long time before any of us can consider ourselves fixed. There's a whole in our lives now, emptiness, a space that you used to fill.

It's raining on my window. How appropriate.

It always rains when I'm sad.

I hope you have found peace, my friend.

I am still searching for it.

Goodbye, Matt.

Love always and forever,

Emilee,

The girl next door