You taste the iron in your mouth, blood pooling on your tongue because you’re biting the inside of your cheeks so tight. Your eyes fill with tears and you try to hold them in by looking up, chin tucked down, but one slips free and rolls down your cheek.
You notice your fists are clenched so tightly your whole body feels braced. You know if you let go, the tears will pour out and the snot will run down your nose and you won’t have any control to stop. You’re the oldest sibling, so you were the only one chosen to attend, you’re ‘mature for your age’ so you better act it now.
You thought you saw him standing over the casket, so how could he be inside it?
You walk up and kneel.
“Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.” You cross your chest, right to left.
You look at him. He looks different, but also the same.
Others gather around you and touch his hand. Should you do that too?
You remember last night. You hugged him goodbye, but you said goodnight instead. You thought you’d see him tomorrow. You didn’t want to leave. You stayed overnight so many times before, so why couldn’t you tonight?
Your parents say no and take you away. Your maternal grandma’s apartment is warm and the TV is on. You thought everyone was staying so you wondered where you would sleep but your parents leave to go back. You cry because you want to go too. You have your new pajamas and you want to show them off, how good the blue looks on you. You’re told to stay with your brother and sister. They tell you that you can see him in the morning.
You feel defeated.
You can’t sleep all night. You don’t want to change. You don’t want to waste any more time.
Where are they? They should have been here by now.
Your other grandma is acting strange, but she says they just called and they’re on their way.
They walk in.
Your excitement turns to heartbreak.
You never said goodbye.
You remember the walks to the park through the woods, the path only we knew. He showed you the ferns, and they’ve always held a special place in your heart. Even now you can’t help but smile when you see them hanging from someone’s front porch, knowing they were once wild too.
But the smell of the room, heavy with flowers, makes you sick. You stand up and start looking for your parents. You can’t find them anywhere, but you see your cousins and hope they can help you find the bathroom.
You’re really crying now, and suddenly it feels like you don’t know anyone. You’ve lost your family in the crowd, not yet understanding what standing room only means, or the weight it carries. But you remember he always had a handkerchief when you were homesick at night. Your baby face, red, and covered in salt water tears. Panic washes over you. Who will have one for you now?
You go outside but it starts to rain.
Soon everyone is getting into their cars. You’re in yours with your parents. Every car has its flags up and the four-ways blinking.
You wonder why you didn’t get a flag too.
Why didn’t the funeral home have enough for all the cars in the procession?
Your parents say we have to stay sandwiched between the cars that do so we can follow them through the red lights in town.
The car is quiet, you hear the steady click, click, click.
At the Valley, burying him, everyone is crying now.
But you’re not.
You’re tired. You want to go to sleep, but you have to stay and eat and hug people and play.
It’s all a blur now, but some memories remain:
mashed potato volcanoes with gravy lava at Thanksgiving
Sunday newspaper crossword puzzles
cigar tobacco-filled bear hugs and Old Milwaukee kisses on your cheeks
potato soup on a random Wednesday
polka music playing on the screened-in porch
picking blackberries, filling up the mason jars
vanilla ice cream with peanut butter and marshmallow whip
bluegills waiting to be caught in the pond.
They don’t make grandpas like that anymore.
Written in memory of my grandpa, William Jarbeck Sr.
Stephanie Godinez | Spoken Mementos 