Skeletons

☠6☠

I gazed into the mirror atop the dresser, straightening the black tie of my suit. The frowning man I saw looked like me. At the same time, he looked like a stranger. His plain face. His calloused hands. Who was he today? Who had he been yesterday?

My cellphone on the dresser beeped with the notification of a text and I realized this was no time for an existential crisis.

The text was from Aunt Janice and read, “Your mom is taking a while to get ready. No need to rush getting here. I’ve already told the pastor we’ll be late.”

How she managed to inform that dinosaur was beyond me. The pastor looked like he wouldn't even know what a cellphone was. But the 90-year-old’s ignorance was our saving grace. None of the local Catholic priests wanted to lead the liturgy of a gay man who was murdered. Angry churchgoers would boycott them. Aunt Jan was Protestant and most of those local pastors declined for the same reason. I reached out to some pastors from nearby cities and they refused because they disagreed my family's stance.

So we managed to snag this sagbag and I just hoped he’d live through the funeral. I texted back an, ‘okay,’ and set the phone on the dresser. As I did, a stack of mail fell over. I never did finish cleaning up all his stuff. There was still so much to do. Finish tidying the house, sell the place, pay off Uncle Greg’s debts. Maybe Aunt Janice would suck it up and finish things herself considering she actually lived in the same country, never mind the same state.

I straightened the stack of mail, but one section caught my attention. I slipped out the tri-folded paper. Before, I'd probably assumed it was a bill outside its envelope. But after having read all those letters from my uncle in college, it stood out now as familiar. In fact, the space beside this stack of mail was where I'd first found Will’s number.

The folded paper was fresh, crisp and white. I opened it and the rich ink was so recent, it made my knees buckle. It was the handwriting of the uncle who signed my birthday cards. In my hands was the uncle I knew up until the phone call. It was my uncle.

➿

Dear Will,

I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I'm sorry.

Greg

☠☠☠

♪Only goodness and kindness follow me all the days of my life♪

The small crowd sang.

♪And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord for years to come♪

“You may be seated,” the pastor said in his creaky voice.

I sat down and squeezed my mom’s hand. It was full of balled tissues. She'd already cried so much.

“And now, please give your attention to Raphael Wilson, Gregory’s beloved nephew, as he shares with us a eulogy.” The pastor began shuffling off at a snail's pace.

I gave my mom's hand one last good squeeze before standing up and making my way to the podium. As I approached the stand, I kept my eyes on the floor. Not until I reached the mic did I finally lifted my gaze and look out across the crowd. The principal of the school Uncle Greg worked at and a few other school administrators were there. They were the only ones we allowed outside family. I spotted some of my mom and uncle's cousins and their respective families, plus a great aunt. I looked down at the closed simple, wooden casket. Closed since the beginning because his face was beyond repair. I looked at the stained glass windows and remembered the protesters standing across the street silently yet stubbornly with their signs and rainbow flags. I took the sheet of paper out of my pocket, unfolded it, and set it on the podium. Then, I parted my lips and spoke: