He Came Down For the Funeral

He came down for the funeral, a cold and glassy Saturday morning. The dry grass was glazed with speckles of frost, not white like snow or crystalline like ice, but a dull shade of gray. Everything was gray that day: the pavement, the sky, my hands (wretchedly clammy, rubbed together for warmth). It was as if all the sunlight was locked away with the closing of the casket. He saw me shivering and enveloped my hands within his own; warm, comforting. My ears strained to listen, but each word was absorbed into my thoughts. It was an eloquent speech, I knew that much--everyone was brought to tears, smiling to themselves at the memories of youth and vigor, of inside jokes and anecdotes, memories that could never be buried. But the casket was in the ground, soil  graciously filling its wooden intricacies, as if in attempt to conceal the life that lay within. My mother's teary eyes met my own. My family didn't understand--couldn't possibly understand why I wasn't crying. No one reaches out to comfort the one with the stone cold face, eyes glazed and black like obsidian, apathetic, unfeeling. But he held my hands within his own and said nothing, avoiding my eyes just as I avoided his. Words were said. Now was the time, I told myself; the preset compilation of tragedy at its finest flashed through my mind. But it didn't work, it never has. My eyes were dry as the day. People dispersed; went to the church for "refreshments," but I stayed there, outside, I liked the cold. He left with the others and I stood alone, bare cheeks against the wind, dressed in all black, a perfect image of sorrow. The frigid air numbed my body and I found myself wishing to be numbed on the inside too. My heart was heavy, it became burdensome even to stand up straight, but to slouch would mean to be defeated. Mine was a sad story, one that would evoke sympathy surely, people could point and whisper, "she's misunderstood." But for the first time, I was sick of my selfishness, disgusted for even thinking it. I wanted to sprint away, outrun myself. I wanted to jump into the gaping hole in the ground, open the casket and cry out, "he's still alive!" But I stood there, staring deeply into the College Station sky, light from the sun beginning to peak through. I heard footsteps behind me, the sound of shoes crunching through the grass. I saw a styrofoam cup in my peripheral vision; it was him--black dress shoes and a slim tie--holding out to me a cup filled to the brim with tiny pebbles of crystallized water. Only he could know that I wanted ice to numb me, and I crunched away until I could no longer feel my mouth, or throat, or even stomach for that matter. I was frozen to the core, and yet the pain still somehow seemed to reach me. He stood near me the whole time, his aviator-covered eyes fixed on the horizon. Between the ice and the sunrise, I was lost in a trance, until I suddenly felt a warmth come over me. He had come from behind and wrapped his arms around me, drawing so close that I could feel his breath on my neck. It then dawned on me, something so simple, I couldn't freeze my troubles away by being cold and distant. I could, however, embrace the hardship with humanness, acceptance, and most importantly, companionship. I didn't always have to be strong. "It will be okay, you know," he whispered softly, almost inaudibly. I quickly nodded as a single tear formed in my eye and danced down my cheek. He was right. It will be.