Funerals are rarely ever about what they’re supposed to be about.

August 13, 2013 § Leave a comment

I slicked around that morning in black, listening to Nash belt about how he used to be some king. Detached yet still capable of somewhat fretting over my blue and pink running shoes. My other options were the bright blue loaners from my sister who’d showed up an hour late, but met me at home so that we could face the day together. They were too tight, too blue, also running shoes. We aren’t nice dressed people. We don’t have nice things like things to wear to funerals. My sister guzzled alcohol, and my homemade cough syrup even after I told her it was only made from lemons and honey. Trying to cover the evidence of loss in her gaze by smearing on her face and through her hair whatever I had lying around in my bathroom while I rolled us a few smokes for the road. While rolling I decided in the gist of all the shit, who really gives a fuck that my shoes aren’t black. So I put on my neon running shoes and tied the edges of my black pants to my ankles because it was storming out and I’m short so my pant legs always get fucking soaked. And then I drove us in her car through the storm smoking a joint on route to my moms house who would also be facing this day. We got to my moms where my sister spent thirty minutes in the bathroom doing pills then rushed out frantic because we hadn’t left yet. And she was out of beer. And it was really just the memorial that we were late for so really we weren’t late. So it was fine and mom and me were numb like satisfied zombies telling her we have time. We have time. Once on the road my sister sat in the back controlling the music from her mp3 player, sobbing and staring out the blurry window, asking mom to buy her beer because she didn’t feel it was right she had to spend her own money on a day when she was attending a funeral for the man no one ever thought would go but was actually and dauntingly kind of glad he did.

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