Before and After Him

Ages: 10-12

"Would anyone else like to say a few words?"
"Liv", "what?" I mumble, caught up in my thoughts of nothingness.
Thinking of nothing is a whole lot better than the listing to the words of people who have never experienced grief.
It's obvious in how they talk.
Obvious that they have never experienced anything remotely hard in their middle class suburb life's.
Of course, besides a broken nail, the wrong shade of blond highlights and their husbands screwing their overpaid nanny.
Which should make it illegal for them to talk at funerals.
I know I sound like a terrible person; but if I have to hear one more time that "he's in a better place now", or something related to "god gaining an angel."
I'm going to slap someone.

I watch in horror as my mom nods her head towards the my twelve year old brothers coffin.
Before I can shake my head I look up.
A mistake because I make eye contact with my dad.
My dad who had just finished saying what was expected; essentially, how great Emmett was.
How he lived a short and meaningful life, how he was so alive and optimistic; even though he wasn't.
I know what's about to happen.
Yet, I still find it a shock when I hear my dad-, "Olivia."
I rise, I told my parents I wrote a speech.
Only to get them off my back, after I repeatedly begged them not to speak at Emmett's funeral.
They didn't care.
They thought I didn't want to speak because public speaking makes me nervous.
The truth is, public speaking does make me nervous but that wasn't and still isn't the reason I don't want to speak.
I tried to explain why but nothing came out, my mom was the one to say, "in times of grief we all have a part to play."
Which felt quite harsh, my dad the softer parent was the one to tell me to write a speech.
In my defence, I did; I wrote many speeches.
It was just that none of them were what was expected.
None of my drafts talked about how Emmett was a big douting brother, who made me feel safe and occasionally teased me.
Instead, each draft had hospital stories and stories of me taking care of him.
I knew my mom wanted to read my speech and I knew none of my drafts would make the cut.
So I did everyone a favour and threw each one out before my mom would have the awkward moment of reading it and having to think of feedback to give.
I can't help but think maybe I should of just picked the least vulnerable one and ran with it because now I literally have nothing.
It's not that I have nothing to say.
I have lots to say, just to Emmett but I have less than nothing to say to anyone else.
Which puts me in an a bad spot.
As I walk up to the podium I feel everyone's eyes on me.
It's almost the exact same feeling as being called up to give a presentation or write a test you haven't studied for; times a thousand.
The few steps feel like forever, even though I was in the first row.
My dad helps me up the steps even though I can easily walk up them myself.
I know that wasn't the point, it was about him reminding me that he's here for me.
Regardless, I feel weak and sadder when I see his face up close.
He gives me a sad smile and it makes my knees buckle.
If my dad or anyone notices they don't say a word.
I move the small black mic down and open my mouth; sure that word vomit is mere seconds away from pouring out.
Just as I'm about to say god knows what I see Mrs. Jefferson in the third row.
Than I see Dr. Cann, our neighbours Mr. Henley and Mrs.Henley and Robin my best friend.
I scan the rows and I see so many familiar faces it hurts.
Hurt doesn't begin to describe what I feel when I glance to the side; at my brother's coffin.
It's closed and a warm hazel wood brown with a reef of different coloured roses on top.
I can't help but think it looks tacky.
It looks like it was picked by a middle class housewife.
A quite accurate thought because that's actually who picked it out; my mom.
I wonder if anyone else can see it?
Or only my judgement self can?
I snap my head back, ready to talk of my grief like one talks of fond memories.
I try, I really do; but I can't.
It physically hurts to speak.
It feels like hot coals are down my throat or salty sea water threatens to spill if I speak.
I don't know how long I stand there, it feels like seconds but at the same time it feels like hours.
All I know is the next thing I know I'm being ushered back to my seat by my dad.
My mom looks furious and my dad has a blank look on his face like he can't believe I just did that.
Fair.
Both reactions are fair, I know that.
I should of said something. Literally anything I could of lied but I didn't and now I have to live with being the girl who didn't say a thing at her brothers funeral.