Wicked

Kyle 1

Kyle

I passed the empty pews of the church, back to my family after a second bathroom break. The white bread from a triangle-cut sandwich was still glued to the roof of my mouth. We'd driven two hours from Brine to make Grandad's funeral, the easiest trip undertaken in all our extended family. It was what the Thorburn's did: flourish and quickly extend new roots elsewhere. Of my three brothers one traveled from the next city over where he was studying microbiology at the best university in the state, another arrived from the rural outback where he lived as a volunteer doctor for the indigenous peoples, and the eldest had taken a flight from Sri Lanka where he'd been representing at a national level for cricket.

Me? I'd been at home with Mum and Dad in our beachside tourist trap town, we bundled into the Holden commodore and drove the two hours to get here. There was a surprising ache in my middle and I didn't know what to do with it. After hearing the news of Grandad's passing, I'd surprised myself by crying in my bedroom that night. Nothing dramatic, just a few loose tears. Still, I never cried. I wasn't a crier.

There were only a few things about me that made me cool. Never being a crier was one of them. Still I suppose I must admit to myself, Grandad was my favourite and closest family member. And I didn't even see him much. But we'd played countless games of checkers and chess on ancient wooden boards when I was little. I'd never been big on talking, so I listened to his tales of evading Nazi soldiers in Holland during World War Two instead. There'd not once been comparisons made between me and my boisterous, sporty and genius older brothers. No mention of their glaring achievements. Grandma had passed eight years before him, and now he'd taken a sudden turn and followed her out.

I squeezed my way past knees in suit pants and formal dresses. Uncles, Aunties, cousins, eccentric family members I'd only seen once or twice before. A youthful version of Grandad watched me from the projector, the pastor organized papers on his podium and they ruffled loudly under the small microphone. The jabbering folks were distracted by the amazing lives my brothers were leading, allowing me to sit beside Dad quietly and unnoticed. Blending into the background without really trying; soon the pastor called for silence. A cousin of mine was patting the back of her noisy two-year-old throughout the eulogy.

"We have gathered here today to celebrate the life of Martin Ulysses Thorburn. While he will be sorely missed, we are not here to focus on his death but rather the whole of the life he lived..."

Unexpectedly the talk tugged on my heartstrings. A few of my family members dabbed their eyes with handkerchiefs. I was thankful I stayed stoic.

Afterwards we left the chapel and strolled the grassy hills, meticulously mown with long flowerbeds of lilac and roses. Purple, white and yellow. Small black headstones made from granite with shining plaques sat in rows, a few had been left ribboned bouquets. A late Spring breeze ruffled frocks and decorative wide-brim hats as we marched out. When the shiny black coffin was lowered into the ground I no longer felt pain but the first hit of sadness. A rush of hopelessness.

My luck had never been good, but this past month had been a shocker even by my standards. I wasn't at all superstitious, I found it hard to believe Grandad's ghost was out there or anywhere, but even so I couldn't help feeling like I must have walked under a ladder, crossed a black cat, broken a mirror or something. How else could you explain a death in the family, being let go from my part-time job and having to drop down into a lower Maths class all in the space of one week?

When it rains it pours, I guess. Talk about a string of bad luck.

The funeral decompressed slowly, families heading off one-by-one while others lingered and chatted by the mealy trays of sandwiches. I bought orange juice from a vending machine and it tasted sick, I tossed it after a few sips. Sitting on the stone edge of a flower-bush enclosure, staring beyond stone cherubim spitting water in birdbath fountains, to the empty grass hills dotted with the black granite headstones. They gleamed in the midday sun, a lone Ficus tree's leaves were shimmering in the breeze.