Monday, January 28, 2013

Death of August: the Funeral


            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.

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