Lamentations of an Onlooker

Costume

Funerals are never happy. That is simply a social norm.

The deceased is named Jay Turner. We went to high school together, or so I was advised in my invitation. I never knew him well; we were mutual associates, friends of friends. Perhaps we had exchanged words once, or perhaps we never did. It matters to neither me nor the decomposing corpse in the coffin.

The funeral staff looks at my black clothing and the parting gift clutched in my hand.

"Are you here for the funeral?"

A pointless question, but I nod anyway. It is far less troublesome if you simply partake in the trivial exchange of question and answers. It is like a pre-written script—both parties know how the conversation will play out, though they follow each line dutifully.

The gift that I have brought is a lily. It has not fully bloomed yet, but the pollen leaks out regardless. The unpleasant substance clings to my hand in a sticky, clammy film.

The procession has barely started, and yet I already would rather be elsewhere.

As I walk into the main hall, I am surrounded by the soft, mournful tone of a grand piano. It speaks of aching loss and lasting heartache; it laments unrealised dreams and unfulfilled promises. A flurry of heavy sorrow blows across the room, almost tangible enough to suffocate me.

Though, a second — and much less agreeable — sound joins its dirge. A loud, jarring series of cries and wails echo in the chamber, not unlike the sound of nails against a chalkboard.

I turn my head towards the source of the disruption. A herd of middle-aged women, most likely relatives of the deceased, shuffle inside with little care for the tender atmosphere.

They crowd around Turner's final resting place — I almost pity him, even though I know he is long gone. I would imagine that it is unpleasant to be peacefully laid inside your eternal bed and have little rats scurrying outside, gnawing and nibbling at the corners.

"Oh Turner, I loved you since the day you were born. Even if I wasn't there for your birthdays or moment of celebration, I had always supported you."

I frown at the strange juxtaposition, but the other aunts seem to agree earnestly with her self-contradictory words.

"Yes," says another. "We all cherished you greatly. Your possessions, even more so."

It may simply be my pessimism, but they appear to be eying the coffin and how expensive it looks.

The coffin is beautiful — I must admit that. The ivory wood is gilded with ornate designs. It must have cost no small amount to construct. But despite all its elaborate opulence, the wooden box is merely a façade in the end. A shield to hide Turner's embalmed body from the guests, all to keep up appearances.

Much like the scene before me.

I stare impassively at the supposedly tear-jerking display. This garners the attention from nearby onlookers, who glare at my unmoving face.

Is it not enough to simply pity the dead? Must I go about shedding false tears for a stranger?

Because in truth, that is all Jay Turner is to me. The perpetually grinning, cocky overachiever is nowhere to be seen in the memorial photos of him. In place of the Turner I once knew, there is only a sombre, defeated looking man. One could only speculate about what catalysed such a dramatic transition.

These people around me will not be happy until tears fall from my eyes. They want me to participate in this charade of mourning, this tragic stage-play with an empty premise.

Humanity is cast as the directors, the actors, the audience all at once. We play all the roles and yet receive none of the recognition. I am unclear when these curtains opened, but I am a thousand times more certain that the curtains will never close again.