I don’t know when the funeral begins, but when Mirai nudges me and whispers in my ear, “Glasses,” to remind me to remove my eyewear, I open my eyes and see the caskets in front of me.
I take off my glasses, folding them gently and slipping them into my pocket.
The speakers go up, one by one over the next hour, telling stories I’d never heard and painting a picture of people I didn’t know. I sit there, listening to Mirai talk about what a pleasure it was to be a part of their lives and support their work, while Cassidy （no double e） and Mr. Palmer tell stories of their youth and early careers, their charitable work a large part of the narrative the publicist probably asked them to push to remind people that how they left this world wasn’t the most important thing.
As Delmont, my father’s closest friend, stands up there and talks about their college football days and summers backpacking in Turkey or Chile or wherever, Mirai puts her hand on mine to alert me it’s almost time.
My stomach churns. I could talk about their work, I guess. How they were an inspiration to me, and I could lie about all the cards and presents they surprised me with at school, even though it was Mirai, and I always knew it was her, even though she gave them the credit.
I could talk about what I’ve learned from my uncle and cousins. And then say I learned it from my parents instead.
I don’t want to be quiet anymore. I want to prove to them that they didn’t break me. That I won’t let them affect my voice and my ability to be brave.
But as I try to steady my feet under me to get ready to stand up, I can’t.
I don’t want to lie.
“Things change, life moves on, and the world with it,” Delmont says. “But death? Death is as sure as night.”
I look up at him, listening to his words.
“It’s a part of us all.” He looks around at the audience as he starts to wrap up his speech. “The only thing we really leave behind is the work that we do and the people who love us.”
The people who love us…
“Amelia and Hannes didn’t leave anything on the table,” he concludes. “They always knew the answer to the most important question in one’s life—where do I want to be today?”
I stare at my parents’ caskets, closed, so we all would remember them the way they were.
And the tears start falling down my cheeks, now after days.
I hate them.
I hate them, and I’ve wasted too much time hating them.
This isn’t where I want to be.
You loved each other. I wipe my tears, looking over at them and the words I couldn’t muster before finally coming. You were luckier than most.
At least they had each other.
You were capable of so much when it came to love. I drop my eyes, staring at my lap, my fists clenching around my coat. And you considered what it would be like to live without love, because you decided not to live without each other. Did you consider what it was like for me—all these years—living without you?
Tears fall silently, and everything is blurry. I close my eyes, all the years of anger rising up as I grit my teeth.
I hate your house, I tell them in my head. I hate the stench of your perfume and your candles and your hairspray. I hate the feel of your clothes and the white walls, the white carpets, and the white furniture. I try to calm my breathing. The library full of books that have never been opened and how nothing was ever warm.
I hated you.
I can’t catch my breath. The air just feels too thick. I’m cold.
I hate how I never told you any of this. How I never fought or said anything or called you out. How I never walked out to look in the world for what I needed. How I let you win.
How I never let you know that you devastated me.
That’s where I wanted to be when they died. Standing.
That’s all I want.
But I was too much of a coward to talk to you, I mouth to myself, my tears now gone as I draw in a deep breath. Cowards always live to regret, because it’s only too late that they realize the journey is filled with people who are afraid.
They didn’t have to walk alone.
Noah
The chainsaw whirs outside, and I sit up in bed, swinging my legs over the side. I run a hand through my hair. Will he fight me if I don’t want to leave this fucking room today?
Kaleb ditched us and went hunting again yesterday, and Dad’s barely said three words to me in the last forty-eight hours. Fun, fun. It’s like old times again.
I shake my head and stand up, throwing on some jeans before leaving the room. I’m getting out of this house. Out of this town. In the middle of the night like a coward, because I can’t handle confrontation, but I’m leaving. Maybe he’ll realize how fantastic I was once he doesn’t have me to push around anymore. Because he certainly won’t get in Kaleb’s face.