"Funerals are for the living." - John Green, The Fault in Our Stars
Funerals, Funerals, Why Can't I Go? by Sarah Daskal
Of all the funerals that I was invited to, I was never allowed to attend a single one. Which I never understood. I knew the person. I talked to the person. I breathed the same air, stood in the same spot, took up space with that person. Mattered with that person, but I wasn’t allowed to go see that person when it would be the last moments they would be above ground? No, apparently, it would be “too depressing”, or “unsuitable for kids my age”. I’m an adult and the words are still repeated to me over and over again. When those excuses ran out, the old, “Do you really want to remember him that way? Dead?
Do you really want to remember him dead?” comes into play and I feel to superglue the person’s mouth shut. What does it matter if I go to a funeral anyway? My friend is in a box! I’m not looking his living face in the eyes and telling him goodbye. I’m not holding his hand. I’m not talking to him for the last time. That’s over. I can’t do that anymore anyway. He’s dead. He can’t rise up and hug me one last time. He can’t tell me where he’s going. He can’t do anything but wait for them to close the casket and be buried underground.
Is he even in his body anymore? Or is he wandering around the funeral home wondering why everyone looks so somber? Why everyone isn’t talking? Why I’m not there? Or did no one show up? Did no one go because it was “too depressing” or because all his friends are eighteen and younger and a funeral isn’t “suitable for kids”? Why does anyone even bother with a funeral if no one’s going to go? Why even bother inviting me? Why? Why? Why?
He’s going to be six feet in the ground anyway? He can’t appreciate the black clothes or his family he’s never even met saying goodbye. He can’t tell us he loves us. He can’t tell us its all okay. He can’t tell us that he’s not hurt anymore.
Or can he? I wouldn’t know! I’ve never been allowed to go to a funeral!
I’m already forgotten what he looks like. I can’t tell you what side of his lips turn up first when he smiles. I can’t tell you how many freckles he has on his cheeks. I can’t tell you whether or not he still have a scar on his left hand or if it's been covered up!
Why can’t I go to a funeral? Funerals can’t possibly be for the dead boy in the box whose eyes are close so he can’t see any of it anyway. Funerals are not for the dressed up dead boy in a box whose got nowhere to go but into the dirt. Funerals are not for the dead boy in the box whose already had all of his organs taken from him. His heart is no longer in his chest. His lungs are no longer helping him breathe! Funerals are no for the dead boy in the box. Not for the boy who shouldn’t be dead in the first place!
Funerals are not for the dead, but for the living, so why wouldn’t you let me go?
