Dress at a funeral

It was made of a heavy fabric; a clothe that fell between her fingers. Holding the dress up against her body, she turned to face the full length mirror. It ended appropriately, just below her knobby knees. She stared listlessly at the reflection of two, drainpipe calves. Of all her black dresses, it was the only one that might do. And, it had to be black. 

At the church, Clarence was wearing dark colours too. Briefly, she wondered if he wouldn't be more comfortable in his electric blue Superman tee-shirt. She'd seen it on him so often, the running joke was that he had lived in it. In death as in life, she thought, and so it would be fitting for him to be buried in it. And maybe along with his bass guitar too. In death, as in life.

Then she thought, perhaps his family may want these things as keepsake. It seemed only natural really. The biggest hoarders are those who have lost something, someone, equally big. These are the only people with enough space in their lives. 

Clarence's coffin was red. Some sort of cherry wood. His sleeping face serene in the cathedral's white light. He was half the boy he had been only a year ago. Body and life wasted by cancer. But, because it was Clarence, that was still a lot! His big personality was highlighted by every tear shed that afternoon. 

She stared at the box; trying so hard not to cry that her face became a blank slate. She wanted to watch the other people, but it didn't seem right. Even congregated as they all were, a person's pain is private. She stared at the body. Yes, it was now, just a body. Still Clarence, but now with the added description: Clarence's body, half-a-Clarence.

Uncharacteristically silent, and dignified- in death. 

Except for the wads of embalming cotton sticking out from his very still nostrils. From where she stood, aisle six from the front, the cotton looked like a giant booger. One that he'd never have the chance to pick out. Camera clicking could be heard from any corner with a decent light. Friends, who were also photographers. Poe-like in their dealings with pain. The instrument's snapping noise of capture seemed, all at once, more pronounced. He'd be buried forever with a cotton booger but she wondered if they  would take care of the image in post-production.

Just as the thought crossed her mind, Clarence's older brother quietly pushed the cotton higher up the body's nose, so it couldn't be seen anymore. He's brave, she thought, for he didn't cry.

A few hymns later, the gathered left the church. She found her younger brother, who had played drums with Clarence in a band, the remaining members of which were also present. They'd all been together since her brother was ten. Clarence must have been fifteen and she, seventeen, when they'd first met; a decade ago. Each of the young boys had red eyes but dry cheeks. The backs of their hands were wet and glistened; It wasn't a hot day and the cathedral almost chilly. They, too, were brave.

Everyone dissipated. She went home filled with memories of Superman tee-shirts, Slipknot and cotton wads. She took off the black dress, found her purple payjamas and crawled into them. She switched on the television and let the laughter track tell her how to react to the given situations. She found this lack of complication comforting.  It was a re-run she'd seen before, so she already knew when to laugh and when to cry.

How strange, she thought, that it was so natural for life to move on. 

Few good men

It’s been said that behind every great man there’s a great woman and it’s probably true. I don’t know if this has ever been said but I was thinking that behind every happy woman I’ve ever met, is a good man. The other thing that came to mind was that while there are many great men in the world, not all of them are good and then I thought, good men are a rarity to our world aren’t they? So are good women, so perhaps just good people are a rarity, which is why it hurts to see one leave us. 

I’m writing today to mourn one such person, who though I did not spend a massive amount of time with, I know to be a good man. I know this because the first time I met him, I lied to him. I told him I’d bring his daughter back by  midnight, I remember clearly how I shook in my boots when we returned the next morning. He opened the front door for us but didn’t hold it against me and at that time I saw, that unlike a lot of people who forget, he knew that children have growing up to do and left room for it.

There were other things about him as well. He never matched his turban with his tie, he always had a smile on his face, he enjoyed reading Chuck Palahnuik and he enforced his house rules firmly but not cruelly. There’s a fine line between fascism and good parenting and from what I saw, he toed it well. 

Another way to tell if a man truly has a good heart is to look at his family. A broken man will have a fractured home, a coward will raise fearful children, selfish men have hollow kin but whatever else they are, a good man’s children are always at peace with themselves. This innate confidence comes from growing up in an environment that expects from you what you can give it and no more, it comes from having always received unconditional love and respect. 

I’ve known his children for a while now, so I’ve seen their struggles with themselves and because I’ve seen others struggle in the same way but without any help, I know that they were never wanting for support and hence are now able to reciprocate the same faith for others. It’s an important lesson that any father must teach their young but very few have learnt themselves. 

There are innumerable lessons that he passed on to me and from what I saw, many others, but mostly I’m grateful that he taught his daughter to love as well as he did, because someday I’ll need a real friend and I know she knows how to be one. That is another rarity in today’s world. 

Goodbye uncle.... the world would’ve done well to have you with them longer but I’m sure you’re making wherever it is that you are, a better place.