deepundergroundpoetry.com
My First Encounter With Death
It was a quiet July afternoon in 1984.
Everyone keeping their emotions at bay.
Even the sun's 90 degrees felt slightly cooler.
While getting dressed.
Parents ordering us kids with short, succinct instructions.
"Put your suit on.
Brush your teeth.
Comb your hair."
My suit? Really?? Ugh. Ok.
I hate dressing up.
I listened because I knew something bigger was happening than just why I can't go play with my new toys. It wasn't the time to argue.
We get in the wood-paneled station wagon and go to the funeral home.
Cars lined up in a procession dropping off people at the door.
Everyone dressed in black.
We walk in and my mother gets a wave of hugs and she starts crying.
We walk towards the room.
It seemed to get bigger with each step.
As I pass through the entrance.
To my right
A casket with someone I don't really recognize.
But I knew who she was.
My grandma that I visited every Saturday.
My grandpa sitting front row and center could hardly believe what is happening.
His face in tears. Confused and bewildered.
I approach the casket following the line.
I didn't know what to do so just copied all the others.
Kneel down. Hands in prayer position.
What do I say to a dead person?
Instead. I look at her.
It was the moment time truly stopped.
Not a muscle moved on her face. Not the slightest accidental wince.
Her hands gently lay over her chest with rosaries.
I stare a little longer.
Did I just see her chest rise?
She is breathing!
No. It is not. That's just how I'm used to seeing her.
My eyes are not comfortable with the stillness of the dead.
I feel like I am holding up the line like my prayer is longer than it needs to be.
I get up and look over her again more in curiosity than sadness.
I go and sit down in the front row on the side.
The only thing you can hear are moans of sobbing. Sometimes in unison. Sometimes one person. A woman behind me I can hear letting out short cries as if trying to let the big one come out. But it never does.
Am I supposed to cry too?
What am supposed to feel?
I will never see her again but somehow my sadness is not matured to where I appreciate death.
Or maybe we are all over reacting to this event. Like roadkill. We should just sweep it to the side and let nature devour the carcass and hurry to get to where we are going.
There is no room for the dead among the living. Not for this 11-year old kid, anyway.
Everyone keeping their emotions at bay.
Even the sun's 90 degrees felt slightly cooler.
While getting dressed.
Parents ordering us kids with short, succinct instructions.
"Put your suit on.
Brush your teeth.
Comb your hair."
My suit? Really?? Ugh. Ok.
I hate dressing up.
I listened because I knew something bigger was happening than just why I can't go play with my new toys. It wasn't the time to argue.
We get in the wood-paneled station wagon and go to the funeral home.
Cars lined up in a procession dropping off people at the door.
Everyone dressed in black.
We walk in and my mother gets a wave of hugs and she starts crying.
We walk towards the room.
It seemed to get bigger with each step.
As I pass through the entrance.
To my right
A casket with someone I don't really recognize.
But I knew who she was.
My grandma that I visited every Saturday.
My grandpa sitting front row and center could hardly believe what is happening.
His face in tears. Confused and bewildered.
I approach the casket following the line.
I didn't know what to do so just copied all the others.
Kneel down. Hands in prayer position.
What do I say to a dead person?
Instead. I look at her.
It was the moment time truly stopped.
Not a muscle moved on her face. Not the slightest accidental wince.
Her hands gently lay over her chest with rosaries.
I stare a little longer.
Did I just see her chest rise?
She is breathing!
No. It is not. That's just how I'm used to seeing her.
My eyes are not comfortable with the stillness of the dead.
I feel like I am holding up the line like my prayer is longer than it needs to be.
I get up and look over her again more in curiosity than sadness.
I go and sit down in the front row on the side.
The only thing you can hear are moans of sobbing. Sometimes in unison. Sometimes one person. A woman behind me I can hear letting out short cries as if trying to let the big one come out. But it never does.
Am I supposed to cry too?
What am supposed to feel?
I will never see her again but somehow my sadness is not matured to where I appreciate death.
Or maybe we are all over reacting to this event. Like roadkill. We should just sweep it to the side and let nature devour the carcass and hurry to get to where we are going.
There is no room for the dead among the living. Not for this 11-year old kid, anyway.
Published 29th Jun 2015
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 4
reading list entries 0
comments 9
reads 626
Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.
29th Jun 2015 4:52pm
Just wow. I think about death a lot...but I think what's interesting about this is how you are able to come at it from a kid's point of view and you do it so well. Especially the "rising chest."
Those last two lines really pack a punch. Spot on...but those thoughts carry over into adulthood, I think. You have to remove yourself from death in order to just live out the day. that's my experience, anyway.
Ethereal write, DWP.
Those last two lines really pack a punch. Spot on...but those thoughts carry over into adulthood, I think. You have to remove yourself from death in order to just live out the day. that's my experience, anyway.
Ethereal write, DWP.
30th Jun 2015 3:47am
A kids point of view I think is more honest. And it is the most impressionable as well. I remember the rising chest. It creeped me out actually. I agree, much has carried into adulthood. But death is something I have thought a lot about as well. Thank you for your considerate and thoughtful comment, VP.
29th Jun 2015 7:58pm
A child feels more confusion than grief in front of the casket. The "coping skills" come later, if they come at all. Excellent work DWP.
30th Jun 2015 3:49am
Coping skills is all you end up with. And then, sometimes, coping skills for your coping skills. Thanks for your read and comment Crow.
Anonymous
29th Jun 2015 11:07pm
I was eight when I first encountered death...my 4 year old cousin. All I remember were black veils, lots of mourning, and me playing around some side rail bars without a care in the world.
When you're a child you're more curious than confound to the world and people all around you. To see someone dead at that age leads children to believe they're napping, and in an hour they're going to wake up and go play outside with you.
A beautiful write, Drunkenplay...Enjoyed...xoxo, Devlin;)
When you're a child you're more curious than confound to the world and people all around you. To see someone dead at that age leads children to believe they're napping, and in an hour they're going to wake up and go play outside with you.
A beautiful write, Drunkenplay...Enjoyed...xoxo, Devlin;)
30th Jun 2015 3:52am
We are told that they are "sleeping". And even parents believe that they are in "eternal rest" as if its some spiritual euphemism. Thank you for the read and comment Dev.
30th Jun 2015 6:59am
The title really caught my eye. Wasn't expecting this but wasn't disappointed either. Very good read
30th Jun 2015 2:53pm
Thank you for the read and glad you were appointed and not disappointed by the read. Haha.
6th Aug 2015 6:56am
I stare a little longer.
Did I just see her chest rise?
She is breathing!
No. It is not. That's just how I'm used to seeing her.
No shit, I think this at almost every funeral I've ever been to, the only exceptions being the closed caskets and urn ones.
Did I just see her chest rise?
She is breathing!
No. It is not. That's just how I'm used to seeing her.
No shit, I think this at almost every funeral I've ever been to, the only exceptions being the closed caskets and urn ones.
