wake
by Marla
When a
man dies, his loved ones take turns trying not to fall
asleep. They
sit in front of a coffin keeping their eyes wide open
and
their hearts firmly shut to any slivers of pain that might
slip in
through the cracks—not tonight, please. Not tonight.
They
pass around coffee cups and stories; it is a competition
on who knew
him best, who collected his secrets
like
blood-soaked possessions from the passenger seat
of a
crashed car. When a man dies, his loved ones gather
in a
funeral home in a quiet part of town, away from
skating
rinks and bowling alleys and pizza parlors, and think,
Here is our life. And here is
yours. Someone will
keep
an eye out
for a beautiful woman dressed
in
black, sobbing silently in a corner, avoiding conversation
and
questions. This happens a lot in movies but maybe
there are
plenty of real-life thieves who are brave enough
to show
up, too; maybe what was stolen is returned
once it no longer belongs to anyone. Someone will barge in
and
throw himself onto the floor, and someone else will offer
a box of
tissues, a glass of water, still, a paper fan, calm
in any
form. Someone will bring cookies, gingerbread and butter.
Someone will
eat all the salted peanuts from the bowl
on the
table; someone will finish the last can of Coke.
When a
man dies, there are things that have to be said.
“He was
a good brother,” for instance, or “He was the best father
a
daughter could ask for.” There are things that have to be decided:
who will
put all his clothes in a box, who will pick out a tie,
who will
cancel his flight to Hawaii in the summer, who will settle
the
remaining credit card bill, who will call his employer,
who will
write the obituary, who will take care of Mom.
There
are things that have to be remembered. “He watched
all my
ballet recitals,” for instance, or “He had the heartiest laugh,”
or how
about “He told me once to think of his love
as a
campfire song, a bag of candy, a stack of new books, a puppy—
whatever
makes me happy.” There are things that have to be said
again:
“He was the best father a daughter could ask for.”
There
are things that have to be forgotten.
When a
man dies, his loved ones take turns trying not to fall
asleep.
Here is another cup of coffee. Here is a slice of banana loaf.
Here are
flowers from the first company he worked for—can you
picture him
in his early twenties, all ideals and hope?
Here is
money folded into squares. Here is the grieving widow.
Here is a
row of children, all too young. Here is a girl
in a
pale pink leotard. Here is a smile that will never
be the
same again. Here are more flowers. Here is a photo, look:
look how
handsome he is. Here is our life. And
here is yours. Here is
the
night. Stay. Don’t close your eyes just yet.
