Hanging out

I don’t really understand why the need for a social gathering after the death of a related one. I assume it’s for a last goodbye or to set an end and move on. It is probably a right assumption but it doesn’t make much sense to me. So I pretend. I go to funerals and I make sure others acknowledge my presence, as if I was part of it. But I’m not sad. I usually don’t feel anything, even if it is someone related to me, even if I try. I stand there, watching the coffin being buried while everybody but me is crying or praying or both. I disguise myself with sunglasses and by constantly looking down. It seems to fit the ritual and nobody notices how careless I am being about the whole thing. I could probably sing, make joke or have a beer in there. Cemeteries seem such a nice place for a beer. It is calm, green and breezy; like going to an empty beach or the outskirts of a park. If it wasn’t for the dead people underneath, I guess most people wouldn’t mind hanging out there either.

My grandfather died when I was really young - probably six or seven. It was the first funeral I attended. I was picked at school and remember being happy about it. After all, it seemed as an opportunity to skip that day classes. From that day, I only recall my already dead grandpa. Even my mom and dad’s faces are blurred to me. Everybody but grandpa was ghosts, wandering, giving me pity eyes. But grandpa, grandpa I remember. A lot of him is distinctively clear, a vivid picture taken seconds ago. He had an elongated face, brown skin, eyes shut, and cotton in his big nose. The hair he had left was well combed but most of it was on the back of the head. He was all a big wrinkly forehead. The rest of his body was confined within an indistinct wooden coffin. Nothing else really seemed to matter but my grandpa’s serene expression. He had a happy look, although everybody else was utterly sad. “What a contradiction”, I still remember thinking.

I also remember getting sick that same day, still in the cemetery, moments after my grandpa was buried. I remember a burning sensation in my stomach. I was about to throw up so I ran. I didn’t want anyone to see that. And after arriving at a distant sidewalk with no time left, I put it all out. Today I can tell it was like an awful hangover. My mom, of course, saw me and followed my steps. I remember her saying: “It’s ok son, lets take care of this.” I wasn’t really sure what was there to be taken care of. Of course she didn’t know I threw up not because of a dead body being buried. It was probably due to hyperthermia or lack of food. Or am I on denial? Maybe I still need care.

Since that episode, every time I go to a funeral I remember my grandfather. It is the only emotion that arises, I guess. But it is not happy or sad; it is just a recurring thought of my childhood. I guess my presence is important for others in those moments so I go and I try to comfort them. I don’t need any. It feels like I’m hollow inside or worse because I’m pretending not to be. And if I had to pray, I would for the ritual to be over as quick as possible. I always feel like having a beer after it is over.

Note: This is a work of fiction. Although some events inspired it, the story doesn’t represent any actual facts or a true narrative of my or anybody else’s past.