The Moments

Chapter Twenty-Six

JORDAN WILLS

So here I am. At the funeral. Black slacks to match a black blazer, and a tie hanging limply around my neck. I am holding a flower as I approach a casket, shaking because what's inside is something I'm not sure I want to see.

And as I get closer my hands get shakier and the pedals of the flower feel like they are burning my skin. I want to drop it and watch each leaf blow away in the wind, lifting from the dirt walkway and floating off into the breeze.

Instead I just keep walking, keep letting the flower eat away at my hand.

Then I am in front of her and my mom is resting her hand on my shoulder. I know she can feel me trembling. I know she can feel me relax ever so slightly as she squeezes my tense muscles.

I put down the flower and stare at her for a moment. I don't like saying "her" when referring to a corpse, but at some point it becomes a respect thing. Maybe that's not my Madelyn, but it is still Madelyn. I recognize that and I hate that I do, but I have to.

She looks more alive now than she did the day she died. They did a good job, even if she would never wear that shade of lipstick.

I didn't realize how much I would hate seeing her like this.

I hate it because it's an illusion, a false reality. The pink in her cheeks makes me want to touch them and feel the warmth, the blood rushing just below her skin, but I know it's not there. I kind of want to kiss her, her lips look soft and pink. I have to physically stop myself from leaning down and pressing my mouth to hers. Not because it's inappropriate, but because our last kiss was perfect, the memory of it is perfect, and I don't want to replace it. I don't want to remember kissing her and only be able to feel how cold her lips were and the way she didn't kiss back.

I close my eyes as I step away, recalling the warmth of lips against lips. I can almost feel it, I can almost smell her.

Actually, I'm sure I can smell her.

I look over and realize I am passing by her father. His head is hung, his eyes are red and puffy. He cries freely. I bet it feels better than forcing the tears down.

He is wearing her perfume, and it makes my stomach twist. I worry that the bottle will run out. I worry that he won't be able to find a replacement. I worry that the thing he is clinging to, the scent of his little girl, I worry that it is on him and when it fades, so will she. For him at least.

I take a deep breath. I let the smell flood into me. I want it to wake me up, to revive me and pull me away from the dim part of my mind. Instead, it does the opposite.

I lose myself in it, I close my eyes and teleport to the times that only she wore that scent and her lipstick was the shade she chose off the shelf.

This fantasy carries me to a plastic chair. I can't hear the voices, the preacher, the eulogies that might make me cry if I were listening. Instead I hear the song I wrote for her accompanied by the sound of her breathing, her inhalation sounding like an instrumental addition, in perfect harmony with the chords I play.

Then I hear my name called and I go rigid.

My eyes which were fixed on my shoes, dart up. I am a thing of stress, of panic, and it is evident. And eyes fall on me and each pair stings. I feel the glares like lasers striking me. I want a distraction to draw them away. I look to the coffin and pray she sits up, not just because I miss her, but because I don't want to do this.

My mom gently urges me forward and for a terrifying second I don't think I am able to move.

Then my legs disconnect from me and pull me from my chair.