May 26th

Part: 1

A young girl with thin black hair hanging around her face, closes her almond shaped eyes as she sings a mournful melody filled with sorrow and regret. Her voice breaks as the grieving tones echo throughout the church, brimming with loved ones. The fabric of her simple obsidian colored frock moves as she sways to the somber song. I tightly clench the stiff fabric of my charcoal dress pants and inhale a deep breath to calm myself. I've never heard this song before, but I don't care enough to truly listen to the lyrics. They are too sad for me to think of the weight of the song's words right now. They should've played his favorite song today-not whatever this thing is.

I look around the room to see everyone sitting quietly with their heads down facing their laps. There are three sounds evident in the lonely church: the unknown girl singing, the sniffing of people in the crowd attempting to retract their tears, and the howling of a someone's baby in the last pew. This is only the second funeral I've ever attended in all of my seventeen years. The first one was for my great grandmother Nancy, I had just turned five at that time and I can only faintly remember that day. I do know that she would always wear this horrible perfume that nearly suffocated you every time she wanted a hug or a kiss. I really hope they buried that revolting perfume bottle with her when she croaked.

I told myself when I left my house this morning that I wouldn't cry today, but I'm not sure if I can hold up my own promise to myself. The melancholy in the room is so overpowering, like Nancy's perfume, you just want to keep your distance so you can breathe, but you know if you resist someone will scold you. I guess melancholy isn't quite the right word for it, but damn is this place depressing.

I know that James wouldn't want to see me looking upset, but I learned that sometimes you just can't fight sadness, you have to accept it. He'd always want people around him to be smiling and laughing. I glimpse at the first pew where Mrs. Farley and her extremely tall husband sit, crying over the loss of their only son. I've never seen Mr. Farley cry before, but what do you expect? I guess even ex-Marines do shed a tear or two sometimes, but only sometimes. The weeping mother rests her dyed bleach blonde hair on his broad chest and his collapsing shoulders surround her delicate shaking ones. I wish there was something I could say to console the grieving parents, but I know I don't have the power to do that. I clear my throat awkwardly and turn my gaze away from them. No matter what I say to them, it would never bring back their child.

A large hand grabs my shoulder. I turn my body slightly to see my best friend Bobbi sitting in the pew behind me with his family. His parents shoot me a fleeting pity smile. I assume that his older sister couldn't get off of work, because she's nowhere to be seen. Bobbi's muddy brown eyes are bloodshot and his thick auburn hair is disheveled. I bet I look the same as him right now. Normally, we'd crack a joke about our appearance, but I don't have the energy to think of a decent punchline. Maybe something like "I see you've dressed your best" or something along those lines. Every joke I think of just doesn't seem funny like it normally would.

"When everyone goes to the cemetery, I'm gonna hang back here," He whispers quietly, not wanting to disturb the other folks in the room. "I can't handle watching that. Once they put him in the ground it'll feel real, ya know?"

I grab his hand that still rests on my shoulder and give it a friendly, yet reassuring squeeze. "I know how you feel, man." He squeezes back tightly and smiles at me.

We drop each other's hand, because guys can't hold hands even when their best friend has just died. But, it's nice to know that we are both clearly in this together.

I watch carefully as Mrs. Farley walks up to the podium with quivering hands and an uneasy fake smile. She quickly thanks the girl that was previously singing. I recognize her struggle to hold it together. One wrong move and she might shatter. She glances at her husband and, then, her gaze shifts to me and Bobbi. I can feel a lump growing in my throat. I feel like a deer caught in headlights. As best I can, I send her a reassuring smile trying to help her through her incoming speech. She nods her narrow head slightly and grabs ahold of the microphone.