May Angels Lead You In

There's no one in town I know You gave us some place to go. I never said thank you for that. I thought I might get one more chance... A story of saying goodbye.

May Angels Lead You In

There's no one in town I know

You gave us some place to go.

I never said thank you for that.

I thought I might get one more chance.

I’ve always hated funerals. Too many tears, too much black, and everyone’s so sad.

The room’s rather pretty to be honest, for a Crematorium. It’s been decorated with white roses, and black ribbon. The funeral is a humanist one. Focusing on the person’s life, their achievements, the people they helped, rather than religion and the afterlife.

I moved forward slowly, walking down the centre aisle and shuffling past the others stood around to reach him. He shivers slightly when I cover his hands with my own, and when I look down at them, I saw the he was  holding a scarf. It was my mother’s favourite - her first piece of designer clothing, when she was sixteen - but she’d given it to me a few years ago. I’d told him that it was okay if  he wanted to give it back to her, and I guessed that’s what he was doing…

He stood up, moving behind the podium next to the coffin, staring at it silently for a moment, before taking a deep breath, and setting an unfolded piece of paper in front of him.

Another breath…

Another glance at the closed box…

And he shook his head “I’m so sorry.” He choked. I wasn’t sure if  he was talking to us, or to the person in the coffin, but either way, he could no longer speak. A single tear fell onto his cheek, and my lips parted around a sharp gasp. My dad didn’t cry. Ever. He always told us to be strong,, yet here he was, stood in front of the congregation, crying. He walked down towards the doors, I followed. He stayed outside for the tributes and the readings. He went back in as they drew the curtain around the coffin, soft music playing in the background. I hadn’t tried to speak to him, just been there in case he wanted to talk. He didn't...

What would you think of me now,

so lucky, so strong, so proud?

I never said thank you for that,

now I'll never have a chance.

Our house seemed silent, empty. Dad hadn’t put the music on like he always had. I remember when I was younger, about eight, he used to hold me up, my feet on his, and lead me around the room in a dance until we were both laughing so hard we had to stop for fear of falling over. My dad never stopped me from being interested in what I wanted to be. Even when the other boys were out playing football, and all I wanted to do was play tea parties. He never stopped me. In fact, he sat with me and let me teach him how to hold the cup properly while my mother was at work.

She always came home at the same time, and you could always tell the moment before she walked in the door. You’d hear the squeak of the garden gate that dad always said he’d oil, but never got around to doing, too busy with me. Her heels would click up the path, and there was a moment of silence before the door opened with a joyful “I’m home!”. It was a race between my dad and I, who could get to her first. In retrospect, he probably let me win, but it was a big victory for me back then. I’d wrap my arms around her legs, then as I got older, her waist. She smelled the same every day, a combination of vanilla skin cream, and sweet, floral perfume. I still smell it sometimes, that’s why I wanted her scarf so badly.

And if you were with me tonight,

I'd sing to you just one more time.

A song for a heart so big,

god wouldn't let it live.

“Dad!” I walked out of the kitchen and into the front room, where he was sat, again. Just staring at a family photo that the three of us got done one year on holiday. I walked quietly forwards, not wanting to startle him, I know that some people go into depressive states after a death, and he could lash out. “Dad?” I crouched down in front of him and covered his hand. He shivered again. “Are you cold?” He stares forward.

I sighed, standing from the floor and moving to sit next to him,

“You can’t just stop Dad, remember what you always tell me? Stay strong, keep going. Come on, please? I can put the radio on.”

I stood up again, moving over and pressing the power on. Music filled the room, lifting the atmosphere, but my dad’s head jerked up and he looks around with wide eyes, as if startled. He looked over at me, at the radio behind me, and furrowed his brow, standing and muttering about power surges, turning the radio off and leaving the room.

So what would you think of me now,

so lucky, so strong, so proud?

I never said thank you for that,

now I'll never have a chance.

The holidays have been going on for too long now, I just want to get back to college. Maybe the routine would help my dad get back on track...

I can’t find my jacket anywhere…

I thought that it was in my wardrobe, but it’s not here, and it’s not downstairs. I sighed, leaving my room and calling my dad. He doesn’t answer. I find him eventually, in his room, staring.

He does that a lot now.

Sits in the silence and stares.

When family members or friends come over, I leave them to talk to him, hoping that maybe that’ll help. I’ve sat down on the stairs to listen, but they’re too far away for me to make out more than a few sentences:

“Couldn’t take it anymore-”

“Don’t know what to do with all this stuff-”

Made sense, my mother loved clothes… The same as me.

I went back upstairs and start to tidy my bedroom; better get started if I want it to be in any kind of order for going back to college. Maybe dad’s been doing laundry again - I do tell him not to - because my wardrobe’s looking a bit scarce.

May angels lead you in.

Hear you me my friends.

On sleepless roads the sleepless go.

May angels lead you in.

Things feel wrong today… Like I’m not all there; something’s  missing.

I walked down the stairs slowly, looking around with narrowed eyes, trying to find the misplacement. Dad’s started talking to people again, he seems to be getting better, which is great. But he’s still not talking to me. He’s still acting like he can’t even see me.

I walked into the living room, and found my dad sat listening to quiet music. Jimmy Eat World, I love-

“He loved this band…” My dad speaks softly -  he’s holding a photograph, looking down at it with a smile. With a sigh, he stands, placing the photo back on the mantlepiece and leaving the room-

Walking straight through me.

And I can’t breath,  but that’s ironic isn’t it? Because I don’t need to breath.

Funny how things slip your mind.

I remember it all now… I hesitantly walked forward, looking at the photograph my dad had just replaced. It’s a family photo: Him, my mother, and me. The last one we took, of course, because my mother had died when I was twelve.

Oh.

It seems that a little thing like death can affect your memory.

The bullying never stopped. Not when I got home, not when I went to lunch, not ever. So I’d done the only thing I could think of to stop it.

I hadn’t even stopped to think about the people who did care.

I picked up the photo, and the two pieces of paper resting against it, and knelt down on the floor, placing them in front of me.

In the centre, the family photo. Only dad was left now.

On the right, there was a newspaper clipping, a small paragraph:

‘Chris Humble, aged 17.

R.I.P to my brilliant son.

I hope you’ve found your peace.

May angels lead you in.

I miss you.

Love,

Dad.’

A single tear fell from my cheek, and hit the page. Then it was gone, and there was no sign of  it ever being there at all. Just like me. Soon enough I’d only exist in photos and memories.

On the left, there was a small note, addressed to my dad, in my handwriting, and - slightly blurred, as if someone had been running their thumb over it for a long time - my last two words.

‘I’m sorry.’

There's no one in town I know

You gave us some place to go.

I never said thank you for that.

I thought I might get one more chance.