Even
though everyone must die and all lives will eventually come to an end, the
months were collectively shocked when August's funeral was announced. On that
bright day, with sunlight streaming through the chapel and the unweeded
flowerbed of attendees in black pressing in on all sides, the eleven of them
were, with bowed heads, reliving the moment they had heard the news. It had
been early afternoon for April, and he was in a marijuana daydream as he tapped
a drumstick rhythmically on a cymbal in his bedroom. June had her hands around
the neck of a pink-tipped rose, and the just-opening blossom fell to the grassy
ground when the shears slipped in her surprise. Nobody knew how to tell little
January; though he wasn't close to August, there was the messy business of
death to explain, which is always confusing for a child but is even more
convoluted for the eternal months. November sighed over a mug of chai tea and
pretended it was the steam that made her eyes wet. She was used to death, of
course; it was part of her nature, but August had been well-loved by all,
despite his impetuousness and the sand that seemed to seep from his pores for
how he tracked it everywhere. November wouldn't miss the sand, she thought,
sitting there in the pew.
July
took it hardest of all. When he was just a child, in his own first days of
life, August had seemed like some type of sage, with his bushy white beard over
a tanned face crinkled with white smile lines, always holding a beer, seeming
to never change out of swim trunks. Every question young July came up with,
August not only had an answer to, but could tell you when it happened and who
did it and how his old war buddy, was it Sal, or was it Clive, one of 'em, you
know what, he knew the guy who did it, and the guy's favorite tea was chamomile
and he had it at his last meal in the jailhouse before, well, ya know. July
didn't know, not at that age, but he would nod pensively and wrinkle his brow
to make it look like he was thinking deeply on the affects of, well, ya know,
and August would snicker and toss him some candy worms from the packet he
always seemed to have in his pocket.
When
he had gone up to the casket, July had tucked a paper packet of gummy worms
next to him, under his arm, like he was clutching the sweets to him the way
he'd clutch yesterday's newspaper.
The
wake seemed to last all day. So many eulogies were read that July had trouble
telling the speakers apart, which was a shame, really, because the most
interesting of attendees were present. Zephyr had arrived early and stayed all
afternoon, making her rounds along the perimeter of the funeral parlor (it had
been said that once, long ago, August and Zephyr had been lovers, in his war
days, and you could see it every so often in the way he'd look at her, like there
was something deeper and lovelier and harsher than envy when he noticed her
eternal youth over the big white beard he'd acquired, but their friendship was
as sweet as the summer breeze and they were great company for everyone they
knew); the warm, dust-scented sunlight filtered through the stained glass and
warmed the bald spots of the saints depicted therein (everyone knew the sun was
August's first friend, even those who knew nothing at all about either of them;
the quiet calm with which they say together on August's concrete patio and
drank beers or read yesterday's paper or just sat in quiet enjoyment of each
other radiated a familiarity that transcended words); around noon a tempest
sailed in, harsh and boisterous and full of mourning, and was gone as quickly
as he had come (the tempest and August had had a strange relationship, full of
drunken shouting and stony silence, yet they relied on each other; clocks could
be set by the regularity of their meetings, and no matter how the neighbors
feared it, it was clear that their time together was cathartic for the
almost-always-cheerful August); and such a vast array of others that the room
seemed a patchwork quilt. All of them had a single thread of commonality that
joined them there: they were radiating the love, joy, and eternal wonder
characteristic of everyone August had surrounded himself with. Sitting in that
room with them, despite their grief, was like sitting in a room with your
closest friends and dearest family members, even if you had never met them
before.
But
July still found himself unable to relax. He was constantly doing something-
when he wasn't out on the porch with a cigarette, he was biting his nails or
running his fingers through his hair or fiddling for something in the pocket of
his leather jacket. He slouched low in his chair, legs stretched out before him, arms crossed,
glaring at his cuticles; he sat up straight, turned to the clock at the back of
his room, watching the hands flick seconds emotionlessly to the wayside, his
arm slung over the back rest; his palms pressed against his forehead, elbows on
his knees, staring blankly at his own lap. The sky was darkening; how long had
they been there, and how long until he could go home? Though sleep seemed
decades away, he thought longingly of his bed, where he could pull a pillow
over his head and pretend he was a little boy again. He realized that the
yellow light from August's porch would, for the first time in memory, not be
striping his sheets through the blinds, and the thought made him feel both
darkly hollow and full of water at the same time.
