The Funeral

2002-06-14 - 8:52 a.m.

I'm in a room full of strangers I've met before. Faces without names gathered to pay respects to a name without a face anymore.

What a relief. The local Lutheran man of the cloth keeps his words of comfort brief. I don't want to hear him blathering on about God and the divine plan. We're not here for God, we're here for our friend. When God dies, then you can yammer on about Him at His funeral.

I hope for the sake of those close to me, that when I pass, the person who steps up to the plate to deliver solace at least knew me.

They say that as you get older, you start only seeing people you knew at funerals and weddings. I'm only 24 and my ratio of funerals to weddings is terrible so far.

There's nothing to be said, but we all talk and talk and talk. I don't know you people anymore, but I know what you've been up to. Nothing. We've all been up to varying degrees of nothing. Our friend dies entirely too young and there we stand, sheepishly admitting that we've been procrastinating living.

I feel like everyone there is dead. Just memories, chapters from books I finished long ago, chapters I'm briefly rereading but way out of context.

The sun is shining bright, the day is gorgeous, I feel filthy with their misery and just want to run away from them.