chrysalism. n.
the amniotic tranquility of being indoors during a thunderstorm, listening to waves of rain pattering against the roof like an argument upstairs, whose muffled words are unintelligible but whose crackling release of built-up tension...
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Covington, Georgia. September 3rd, 2017.
"Cole's sister, Georgia Taylor, would like to say a few words," Bill said solemnly at the podium of the small Georgia church, standing stoically next to a large picture of his son smiling on stage next to his siblings. Malone carefully stood from her seat next to Kenny in the front pew, dressed in a black sweater and black jeans, tucked in to show of Cole's favorite belt, the one with the big gold buckle. She smiled softly at her father as she walked past him, and stepped up onto the podium, feelings hundreds of eyes on her. The funeral had been swarmed by fans of Vormir from Boston and New York coming to pay their respects to the guitarist.
"There's a poem, by Ellen Brenneman, that I would like to share," she started slowly, clearing her throat as she pulled a scrap of paper from her back pocket. "Don't think of him as gone away, his journey has just begun. Life holds so many facets, and this Earth is just one-," she stopped abruptly. She raised her eyes from the paper to see a crowd of expectant faces, waiting for her to finish her formal goodbye to her brother. She laughed lightly and shook her head, returning the paper to her pocket.
"Cole would laugh if he saw me up here reciting a poem," she said, eliciting a few chuckles from her audience. "He knew me better than I would have liked, but I wouldn't have had it any other way. I was given a life guide in Cole, someone to help me through all those tough spots. He never failed to pick me up and set me back on my feet, whether I fought him the whole time or not. Cole has the best and biggest heart I've ever seen, and I still believe we never saw him at his best. He had further to go, and to lose him in such a way, well, uh," she laughed nervously, "well it's the most blatant display of injustice I've ever seen."
"Cole will live on in us," she made eye contact with Kenny and Ryan, who smiled back at her. "All of us," she turned her attention to the crowd that had gathered to celebrate Cole's life. She gave them a small smile before leaving the podium and sitting between Ryan and Kenny, who each gave her an approving pat on the knee.
Bill, Kenny, Ryan, and a few of Cole's closest friends served as pallbearers, taking Cole on his final journey to where he would be laid to rest, or at least, the family could say a formal goodbye.
The empty casket was buried alongside their mother, under a large oak tree on a plot of land that had been owned by the Taylor family for hundreds of years. It was a Taylor family tradition for one family to all be buried around the same oak tree, which symbolized their spirits' living on and watching over the remaining family. Kenny rubbed Malone's back as she cried watching the casket being lowered into the ground, wiping a few tears of his own. Bill stood on the other side of Kenny, fiddling with his watch. Once the casket was in the ground, Bill stepped up to the hole dug in the ground.
"I remember, in 2004, Cole was still young," Bill started as he walked up to it. "He loved, what's that band kids? The one with the-,"
"Pantera," Kenny replied, chuckling softly.
"Right, Pantera," Bill continued, looking around at the slightly smaller crowd that had followed the family from the church to the land. "Cole was very into Pantera as a kid and loved the guitarist, Dimebag Darrel. I never understood the name, but whatever, my kid loved them. Anyways, Darrel was, uh, shot, one night during a concert, and it just tore Cole apart, because he hadn't seen his favorite guitar player in concert yet. Darrel was buried with Eddie Van Halen's guitar, a symbol of their friendship and Darrel's love for the music. So, today, we will by burying a Dimebag Darrel guitar with his biggest fan, my son."
Bill was assisted by Kenny and Ryan in shoveling dirt onto the casket, but Kenny was only able to shovel maybe 3 loads before he lost all control and began sobbing, running from the burial towards the small house situated in the middle of the property. He ran the hardest he had ever run, but his vision was tunneled on the door. He burst through the door and flew down the hallway towards the small half-bath situated under the stairs. He hastily locked the door behind him and leaned over the sink, letting his own reflection register. He furiously rummaged through his coat pockets, desperately trying to find the small plastic bag concealed somewhere.
