That first night at home was very surreal. As soon as I walked through the door I was bombarded with hugs from relatives. My grandma, aunt, uncle and cousins were staying over the house. Things were understandably a little bit crowded. My cousins whom I had not seen in years had somehow matured into teenagers seemingly overnight. They passed the time by listening to their iPods and texting various people back and forth. Later that night, the entire family went out to dinner. Even though my sister had just killed herself, the conversations seemed to be all about me; typical of any family gather, be it wedding, birthday and apparently even funerals.
“So, how are things for you up north?”
Once again, I am forced with a choice of either lying or actually telling the truth.
“Good. Things are really good.”
Why should I make them even more depressed?
By the time we had gotten home, I was exhausted. I went straight to my room and started playing The Rolling Stones. I searched through my closet and found a bottle of Mexican Scotch that I received as a present on my twenty-first birthday. I needed a drink. Surprisingly, it had aged well. I took some pills and decided to drift slowly to sleep, but of course pills and booze can make for very interesting dreams.
In this dream, I was once again falling from the Bridge, but my sister was with me. We were both falling and staring at each other, and just as we were about to hit the ocean… the scene had changed again and this time I was having dinner with Maggie at a park. She started running from me and I was chasing her, but I couldn’t catch her. She kept running and running so quickly and yet I kept faltering.
Mental note: no more booze and pills before bed…
The funeral was very solemn. My mother and the rest of the women in attendance all cried. I couldn’t bring myself to cry. It’s funny because I slowly realized that I don’t cry at funerals. I never have.
I saw my sister in the casket and she looked very peaceful, of course I did half expect her to sit up and yell “Surprise!” at any given minute. I hadn’t really grieved for her though. I was worried that it would happen at the most improper time. My mother was hysterical in her grief. My father, being the tough man that he is, wore his sunglasses throughout the whole thing. He never once shed a tear, at least not in front of any of the family members. I found it particularly amusing that there was a priest presiding over the funeral since my sister was a very adamant atheist. In fact, she is notoriously known for once walking out during a school mass and actually protesting the fact that priests were molesting children. She became something of a legend around my school after that.
In attendance at the funeral were many of her old friends she had since lost contact with. I started thinking about what my funeral would be like. Would it consist mainly of people I had a loose acquaintance with in my younger days? Facebook “friends”? I could just imagine the rogue’s gallery of people who would be in attendance. First and foremost would be Maggie of course. Secondly, would be Logan. I can only imagine that Logan would not only be smoking weed, but also hitting on any female within a one foot radius, most likely Maggie too. What a slap in the face! Lastly of course there would be many childhood friends and high school acquaintances. At that moment, I thought about doing it as soon as I got back to the house. Most of my relatives would already be down here for my sister’s funeral so two birds with one stone, am I right? But two funerals in the span of a week? That might be a little much I guess…
My sister was buried in a family plot that my parents had gotten long ago. After seeing her one last time, she was now buried six feet under ground.