Smile, It’s a Funeral

Like everything in life, an event occurs, and we feel the need to make it important. To make it memorable, to make it not be a waste of time. We give a reason for it, and figure out a deep meaning that moves people. A meaning that inspires. When in actuality, we have no idea what we’re talking about.

Another one of those moments was occurring.

Another moment I thought would dictate my life, shape me, define me, determine what I would do for the rest of my days.

At least I wanted it to be that way.

But this was not a special occasion for me. I was too used to this occurrence for it to affect me again.

Black clothing was often the requirement for these moments, it was expected that you dressed in the color of death.

Personally, I don’t know why anyone bothered. I saw it as a sign of mockery. The symbol only taunted death, let him know you were still alive. You set your life on the edge, balancing between two universes, tempting him to take you.

But that’s beside the point.

Death only looked so closely at our lives because we were harboring one of his claimed victims in a casket. We put them on display, so all could come and stare at the cold corpse of someone they believed was significant in their lives. Someone they couldn’t live without.

I stared at the closed eyelids, wondering what their eternal sleep was like. Did they know we were parading around their body, talking amongst each other? Did they know what we felt, how we were dealing, or how much their passing affected us? Could they see the future, know how time would change us, or explore alternate realities and discover what our lives would be like if that driver hadn’t been drunk?

Pointless thoughts, I know. Getting lost in the matrix of changing reality doesn’t do us any good. It’s best to focus on the present, on the pale corpse before me.

A respectful nod and a few tears are acceptable in front of the dead. I gave the former and quietly gave my condolences to the deceased’s loved ones.

Now red cheeks and tears decorate the faces of everyone in the room. But given a few months, the anxiety of life will return and take its toll. Everyone said their lives would never be the same, but our world is ever-changing, so that statement would be true regardless of the circumstances.

I suppose I wondered what difference their death was to the other 150,000 that still occur everyday. We all die eventually, and the planet still moves forward.

With, or without us.

Our whole lives we were taught that death is a tragic thing. We learned to view it as an unhappy event, a cause for mourning. We would take an entire day off, just to sit around the remains, trying to remember them alive. But by then, most of the memories have already faded. We couldn’t remember what it was like to know them, because we didn’t expect them to be gone so soon. We didn’t apologize for arguing, because we just assumed we’d get the chance later. We didn’t record that conversation two days before, because we didn’t know it’d be our last. We didn’t squeeze them tight, or tell them we loved them, because we didn’t know what would happen.

We just didn’t know.

And we couldn’t recollect our last moments together, because we didn’t make them memorable enough. Instead, all we remembered was that someone we knew no longer existed.

Perhaps funerals were created to give us one last memory before the coffin closed. To help us recognize other’s deaths as crucial developments in our life’s progression.

A memory allowing us to fabricate stories that are only half correct. To prove we knew the extinct, and shared a life with them. To prove their existence had some kind of profound impact on us.

To prove we don’t wonder why our life didn’t change after their demise.

I always sit alone at funerals. I’m the only one not wearing black, and besides the children, I’m the only one who smiles.