Not a Ghost Story

One

My sister's funeral is beautiful. And ugly.

I never knew something could be described as both.

It's cloudy today, but instead of rain falling from the sky, it falls from people's eyes.

Pamela was loved in life, and I suppose that love will follow her into death.

Aunts, uncles, friends and cousins surround me and Darcy. They're squeezing our shoulders, kissing our cheeks, wiping our tears and offering up whispered condolences.

None of it helps.

All of it hurts.

I look to Darcy for...well, I'm not sure what for.

She looks back. Rolls her eyes when Aunt Millie's blubbering becomes louder and almost unbearable as she snots into her tissue.

I almost laugh. Any other day I would have laughed.

"Pamela will not be forgotten," The pastor announces as they lower Pamela, encased in her coffin, six feet into the ground.

He continues, "Pamela spent much of her life caring for her sisters, dedicating time to her academics and dreams, and being a genuine friend to all who needed one. She will be missed, but never forgotten."

Pamela was perfect. The best of the three of us. The oldest, the smartest, the most patient and kind. She had helped lead Darcy and I out of the dark ages, out from under our parents' shadow.

And now she is gone for good.

Darcy clasps my hand, gazing out onto the sea of mourners. I know who she is looking for. I know they are not here.

When it's time to drop the roses, Darcy and I go together.

I step up to the grave, clench the stem in my fist and close my eyes.

I don't know how to say goodbye. I don't know if I should pray to her silently or whisper something aloud. I'm not prepared for what comes next. I don't want this moment to be too fleeting, but I also don't want to drag it out.

I look up at the faces of my relatives and Pamela's friends. They avert their eyes to let me have my moment.

I sigh, grip the stem harder.

"Nic," Darcy whispers, alarmed.

I glance over find her staring at the hand that holds the rose, now bloody from the thorns. I relax my fist, peel back my fingers to find my palm torn up, blood tracing dark red lines down my wrist and dripping onto the grass.

I swallow and pull away from Darcy.

I take one last look at Pam's casket, drop my bloody rose into the grave, and whisper, "Goodbye."

The rest do the same, though Darcy takes the longest to say goodbye. Everyone gives her space, remains patient as her green eyes become red-rimmed, her face becomes pale, and her hands begin to shake.

I do not hear what she whispers as she drops her rose. It sounds like a few full sentences, though. Perhaps requesting some last-minute advice on life, love, and taking care of me. Darcy always sought Pam out for advice on things like that.

She lingers at the grave for a moment longer, maybe waiting to see if Pam will answer.

I have to look away.

She returns to my side, shaking her head glumly at my bloody hand.

"We'll get that patched up at the wake."

I don't answer. I don't particularly care that my palm is throbbing in pain or unsightly. I don't care that Aunt Millie and her stout, uppity daughter are looking at me with pity. I don't care that the pastor is eyeing my sister and I with timid curiosity.