The Most Dangerous Place

The Most Dangerous Place

I got the call that Aunt June had died at around twelve in the morning on a Saturday. She’d passed away in her sleep, which I guess, if you have to go, would be the best way to do it. I wasn’t upset when I heard the news from my sister, I mean, why should I have been? It’s not like I knew her. She wasn’t my best friend, she was just a name scribbled messily on a late birthday card. And let me just say, she always got the age wrong. Always. She hadn’t cared enough about me to figure out my real age, so why should I have cared enough about her to go to some stupid funeral? I wasn’t even religious.  When I told my mom that I refused to attend  the service, she had other views. Opposing views. You could even say her wrath was unleashed upon me.

“What do you mean you’re not going to her funeral? Have you completely lost your mind? She was family, whether you knew her or not. It’s our responsibility to go, and it’s your responsibility to care! You’re going, and I don’t want to hear another word about it.” She’d spoken in that terrifyingly calm voice all mothers have mastered.

    I responded  with a sigh and a small eye roll, unsure of what she had meant at the time. How was it my responsibility to care? Responsibilities are necessary actions. They’re important. You’re always hearing those preachers and self help speakers talking about the meaning of life, and how dying isn’t important but living is. Well, if living is so important, why do people pour thousands of dollars into the ground at funerals? I needed someone else to talk to about this, so I decided to consult my biggest supporter-my grandmother.

    I arrived at my Grandma’s house a day before the funeral, the warm glow from her house radiating warmth into a dim afternoon sun. Her spicy smell and warm personality always made her someone easy to talk to. I remember getting into trouble with my mom during my teenage years, biking away to my grandma’s house to escape. Once I was there, I would sit on the floor with my head on her fleshy knees, falling asleep to her soft humming and the warm cinnamon scent that filled my nose. She was always on my side, except for this time, apparently.

    “Now Cassidy, your mother has a point for once. Sometimes adults have to do things that seem to have very little purpose. “It’s our way of feeling young again. Attending funerals just happens to be one of them.” I folded my arms as she ran her neatly manicured fingernails through my curly hair before letting them rest lightly against my neck. How the hell does attending funerals make someone feel young again… I guess it gives them a reason to say “Well, at least I’m not dead yet.” You know? It’s kind of like them saying, “Sucks for you Uncle Sullivan, enjoy your heart transplant and I’ll enjoy my two layer double chocolate cake with cream cheese icing.”  My Grandmother cleared her throat before whispering softly, “I believe you are thinking about this too much. That was always a habit of yours.”

    I sighed into my purple coffee mug before thanking my Grandmother with a small kiss on the nose and a light squeeze of her hand. I pulled on my coat before jogging jauntily out of the front door, down the skinny sidewalk to my car. My Grandmother’s warm glow evaporated into the brisk air around me with each step I took. As I pulled out of her driveway and onto the the cracked street ahead, a thought entered my mind. It poked and prodded at the back of my skull until it hurt too much to ignore. There was one more person I could talk to about this, someone I had forgotten about. That person, was Aunt June herself. Now, I realize that this particular plan required me to abandon my pride and attend the service anyway, but I didn’t care at the time as long as I received my answer. Is it really our responsibility as humans to mourn the dead? If so, why?

    Yeah, I don’t know what I was thinking either.
    The day of the ceremony arrived faster than I expected. The first half of my morning was primarily spent driving around, mindlessly running last minute errands before the three hour service. I dreaded sitting in that church more than I dreaded my yearly round of shots. It was always just so…depressing. My mom was incredibly supportive and upbeat, just as I predicted.

    “I am so, so proud of you for changing your mind about coming.” She whispered into my ear as we ambled our way down the broad aisle of St. Matthew’s Church. An old man crouched behind a tall organ at one end of the room provided a melancholy soundtrack as we all took a seat to the right of the coffin, the area reserved for family. The ancient wooden benches groaned and creaked in protest under the weight of a hundred bodies. Nobody spoke, allowing the eerie noises to echo off the thick stone walls. I hated that sound.

    As the preacher raised his arms in prayer, an odd feeling lodged itself in the pit of my stomach, turning over and over throughout the entire service. It wasn’t a sad feeling, and it wasn’t like I was angry or anything. It was more like…that feeling you get when something horrible happens in some far off place and you’re not really sure how to care, or even if you should care. I didn’t know the woman that lay in the big black box sitting perched at the front of the room. I didn’t even have enough history with her to force myself to have any emotion.

    The service felt longer than it actually was, the bronze hands of the huge grandfather clock above our heads ticking by sluggishly. When a thick bell chimed, signaling the end of the preacher’s sermon, I breathed a sigh of relief. I thought it was over, so I started to stand and make my way out of the room when a firm hand gripped my sleeve, pulling my back down into my seat. It was my mom. She jerked her head outward to the rest of the guests, allowing me to see all of them bowing their heads once more in unison. She probably wanted me to copy the movement, but I didn’t. Instead, I stared at them all with wide eyes. Watching them was kind of beautiful, a wave of muted colors dipping down before soaring back up again. I did not bow my head.

    Only a few people lingered behind after the end of the service. Granted I was in fact one of them, but only because I still needed my answer. I suffered through one more hug from a distant family member before turning around to face the ominous pine box at the front of the room. Roses had been placed around the lid...I guess someone just wanted to try and make the gruesome beautiful. Humans have a habit of doing that.

    The walk up to the casket was a long one, my feet dragging across the red carpeted floor as if they were stuck in deep mud. I held my breath as I peered over the edge of the dark casket, allowing my mouth to gape open. Every inch of my body tingled in anticipation, only dulling after my eyes rested on what what inside. It was just a woman. An old one, at that.

    “What were you expecting? Did you actually think you were going to get a real answer from her?” I mumbled dejectedly to myself. I shrugged my shoulders in response and glanced around with lowered eyes to make sure my internal conversation had gone unnoticed by the other attendees. After finally realizing there was no way I was getting an answer from the woman in the box, I backed away from the coffin and whipped my head around to face the remaining few people still left in the church. They all looked so...relieved. And then it hit me like a ton of bricks, running through me like a freight train and knocking the wind from my lungs. 

    I didn’t need the answer from anyone else, because it had been with me this whole time. I realized that funerals are not for the deceased, they are just security blankets for those still alive. People come, they cry, they leave, and they feel better about themselves and the life they’re living. It’s...selfish in a way.

    This sudden realization shook me to my core, rocking me back onto my heels as if an earthquake had just trembled through the chapel. My mouth opened and I clutched at my chest, struggling desperately to gulp in lungfuls of air. The atmosphere that had settled itself inside the church hall was already thick, only made worse by the strong scent that wafted up from the hundreds of fragranced candles lining the walls. I coughed once, twice, feeling as if I was about to asphyxiate. One thought played over and over in my mind, screeching at the top of its lungs with repetitive impatience as if it were one of my grandmother’s once prized, but now dilapidated, record players.

“Get out get out get out Cassidy you need out.” It screamed.

It suddenly dawned on me  that I was inside of a building, and from my previous experiences, buildings usually had doors. I glanced around frantically, searching for the exit. Once it entered my line of sight, I lept off the altar and sprinted down the aisle. My parched mouth burned as I dodged small groups of people and pushed through the heavy wooden doors, my head spinning. I didn’t stop running once I was outside, instead I turned left and headed down the long dirt road in front of me. The seemingly infinite muddy brown path stretched out before me, without and end in sight. But if I had learned anything from those past few days, it was that infinity is an allusion. Nothing lasts forever.  And oddly, I was alright with that.

My feet wouldn’t stop moving on the road beneath me, and I didn’t want them to. I had my answer, I was free. Completely free to be alone with my own thoughts, the inner workings of my  mind. Which is arguably, one of the most dangerous places to be.

End.