Those Uncomfortable, Comfortable Things

        It’s been a long time since I’ve worn a tie. 
         The last time I had to wear a tie my father tied it for me and I was seven years old.  So now, here I stand sixteen years later, staring at myself in front of the mirror at my Uncle Harry’s house in Detroit, fumbling around with this god awful tie.  Come on, over, under, around, aw Fuck it.  I yank the tie off my neck and toss it onto the bed beside me. 
         I turn around and walk over to my suitcase that sits beside the bed.  With a little extra effort I throw it onto the flower bedspread.  Lucky for me I brought a backup plan.  I reach into the front pocket and pull out my trusty black clip-on tie.  Jackpot.  I turn around once again to my reflection and clip the tie to my collar.  I adjust the collar again and take a step back a little to see my entire profile.  I don’t dress up often and it’s a strange sight to see.  Me, in my black pants, and dark blue shirt.  I spin in a slow circle surveying the room.  Wow, it’s been way too long since I’ve returned to the D.
         The bed catches my eye, inviting me to sit.  I accept the offer.  I slowly ease myself onto the edge of the bed, and lean on the palms of my hands.  Exhaustion begins to take over my body, and the need for sleep hums throughout my legs. Mentally, and physically my body pleads for rest.  We drove my brothers car in one night and a day to Detroit, taking turns behind the wheel.  I was the last to drive and had the longest turn.  I’ve been meaning to return to the old neighborhood, return the city, but not under these conditions.
         My mother got the call two days ago.  Her mother, my grandmother, had been in a coma for the past week and a half.  My mother’s plane ticket was in hand, and she was about to leave when the phone rang.  Sometimes you just get a feeling.  That ring that afternoon sounded different, it screamed bad news, the inevitable ring no one wants to hear.
         I fall back onto the bed and release a slow puffy sigh.
         
         When my mother answered the phone, that day, she was calm.  I was standing in the entryway to the kitchen, just looking at her.  My Aunt Sherry was on the other end doing all the talking.  My mother listened, and as she listened, I noticed her gaze drift more and more into the distance.  That was a scary thing to see; its like watching someone falling deeper and deeper into a hole.  This hole could have been the hole of memory, or the hole of sanity.
           “Ok.”She said, her voice sounding, hollow, and empty.
         I knew right away what was said without even hearing a bit of conversation.  Suddenly, the world was uncomfortable, my clothes didn’t feel right, my skin and body felt too small like I needed to just push and burst my way out of it.  As my mother turned away from the now hung up phone and slowly walked toward her bedroom, I burst.  My emotions spilled from my eyes like rivers, and I jammed them shut, trying hard create the right kind of dam. 
         There was more to it than the passing of my grandmother that made me break down; it was what my mother had said earlier in the afternoon while she packed.  We were standing in her bedroom talking about her mother being in the coma.  Water had collected in my grandmother’s ankles the night before, but this morning she looked completely fine, no water at all.  My mother had taken this as a sign.  She was going to leave tonight on a plane to Detroit and see her in the hospital.  She looked up at me and smiled.
           “I think she’s waiting for me to get there.”She said. ”I think she’s waiting for me to see her before she goes.”
         I smiled at her. 
         Thinking of that moment in her room was the emotional breaking point in my mind.  I wanted my mother to see my grandmother before she passed away, knowing that she died before my mother got there, just broke my heart.  When I opened my eyes again in the kitchen, everything was a tearful blur, so I blinked to clear my vision.  I turned to my mother and watched her walk.  She stopped, and I knew exactly what was happening, her dam had crumbled.  She fell to one knee, and I ran to her, kneeling beside her.  I draped my arm over her shoulder.
           “Mom.” I said over choking tears.
         I tried my best to hold her and calm the tremors that ran through her body.

         I shake the memory from my mind and stare up at the ceiling of my uncle’s bedroom.  The fan over the bed spins in a slow dizzying motion.  I feel the presence of another person in the doorway and look in that direction.  My younger brother Chris stands in the doorway, looking at me as if he is trying not to be noticed, or disturb me.  Seeing that I’m looking at him he steps into the room.  He’s wearing almost the exact same thing I wear, the only difference is his shirt is grey, and his tie is real.  Back in Florida he works for a bank, so he has to wear a tie everyday. Oh lucky him.  People always thought that Chris was older, cause he has a bigger build than I do, and yea, it gets annoying, but I’m still the older brother.  I still get to give him advice, wether its good or bad, I just hope that he takes it to heart.
           “You all right bro?” he asks, getting one more step closer.
           “Yeah, just relaxing.”
           “It’s about time to go, so if your ready?”
         I take in a deep breath and sit up. 
           “I’ll be outside, waiting in the car with Michelle, ok?”  He says.
           “Alright, give me two seconds.”
           “All right.”
         He turns around and walks out of the room and down the hall.  I look down at my shirt and smooth out the wrinkles a bit.  I stand up and get a small bout of dizziness. I thrust my arm out to steady my body and head.  I take one last look at my reflection, the person looking back at me is ragged, and beat.  I look down in disgust, then turn to head out to the car. 
         While on my route to the front door, I pass a few pictures hanging on the wall.  They are photos of my cousin, my aunt and my uncle.  Some photos have myself in them, smiling large with my arm around Chris.  This place use to feel so right, when I was younger I couldn’t wait to come over here and see my cousin Shane.  I suppose as a kid everything is vibrant and fulfilling.  Time takes no pity on you, and as I stare at these photos of a younger six year old version of myself, I begin to understand my parents reasons for cherishing their youth, always telling us kids how when they were our ages things were better. 
         As I pass through the living room toward the front door, I stop.  I stand there in the middle of the room between the sofa and love seat and I close my eyes.  What happened to this place?  It feels empty, and lifeless, almost haunted.  Haunted by ghosts of happiness, and carefree youth.  I get that uncomfortable feeling again, except this feeling is hollow, there is no tightness, this time my body feels too large as if I couldn’t reach my skin if I reached my farthest.
         I open my eyes, and again the world is blurry.  I wipe the blur away with my thumb and index finger. 

         I get into the passenger seat of my brothers Altima.  Chris is already sitting in the driver’s seat, playing with his tie.  My older sister, Michelle sits in the back seat staring out the window.  She hasn’t said a word all morning, excluding a yes or no every now and then.  I hadn’t seen her cry yet either.  This worried me a bit.  I’m a strong believer in crying being good for you, and seeing Michelle hold it all in can’t be good for her.  That, and she is the most talkative person I know, you can’t ever shut her up.  I guess sometimes you need to just be alone with your thoughts and memories. 
         I look on the dash then check my pockets looking for my sunglasses. 
           “They’re in the center console.”  my brother says as he starts the car.
           “Thanks.” I reply.
         I place the sunglasses on to cover the redness that has begun to set in my eyes.  Like I said, crying is good for you, I just don’t like the look of it on my face, and I don’t want people to see my red, irritated eyes. 
         The car ride is quiet, and  I notice that we are about to pass Warrendale Elementary, my old school.  Normally this drive would be entertaining.  It’s always nice to drive through an old neighborhood you haven’t been to in a long time.  All the memories float back to you and a lot of the times you cant help but smile at the stupid things that went on when you were a kid. 
         My father would walk me to school, on sunny days, and my grandmother would always be waiting for me, when the day had ended.  After school was always my favorite time of the day.  I couldn’t wait to walk through the front door of my grandmothers house and smell whatever was cooking for dinner, or baking for desert. 
         Sitting in the passenger seat I close my eyes, and for a second smell the faint odor of oatmeal raisin cookies.  The last time we visited the D, we rode over to the old Elementary school ballpark and had a very amusing family ball game. Memories that normally comfort, now feel sharp and unforgivingly painful.  Again another one of those sighs escapes my body.  I notice my brother look over at me, and I look out the passenger window.  I can’t help but think about how quickly comfortable things can get uncomfortable.  Sometimes that cushion deteriorates, and your left with your ass painfully seated on the metal of the seat.
         We turn right onto Eastwood, and now the memories start flowing abundantly. Childhood rushes into my mind with a force I can hardly hold back.  Of course the street isn’t exactly how I remember it from my younger days.  Back then everything was colorful, bright and clean.  Now it looks gloomy and a little run down.  Partly from the change in time, and the type of neighborhood it has become, bars on the windows and the grass a little uncared for.  Also, from my mood, I never wanted to return for a reason such as this, and now everything looks so drab, and gloomy, then again, Detroit was always gloomy.
         I cant help but be glued to the window watching the past fly by me in a haze of grey.  On the right I see my old friend Zack’s house, of course he doesn’t live there anymore, they moved further north into Michigan.  Last I had heard Zack was going to the University of Michigan, “Go Blue”.  As we pass I see ghosts of myself, Chris and Zack playing army in the front yard, our favorite game.
         I turn to my left and see Mr and Mrs Flannery’s house approaching, or as Chris, Michelle and I called them Mr and Mrs Cucumber.  They use to always give us vegetables, I mean, every time my mother walked into the backyard Mr Cucumber would shuffle on over to the side fence with an armload of vegetables to give to my mother.  My mother loved it, she never had to buy them at the store and she said they were the most delicious vegetables she has ever eaten.  Us kids on the other hand hated it, to this day I have a hard time eating vegetables, especially cucumbers.
         Finally it came into view, the old house, the house where the majority of my memories lie.  As we pass the memories and ghosts shine and burst through the windows and cracks like a bright light.  Some memories flash through my mind like photographs.  Waking up early on Christmas day, and seeing in the dark my first bike I ever owned.  Barbecues in the backyard.  The time that Chris and I had a pillow fight with Michelle’s two feather pillows, and covering the room in little white feathers.  And making snowmen in the front yard, Chris’s snowman being about a foot tall made of dirty black snow.  I smile a bit at the thought of Chris’s pitiful snowman, then the tree out front catches my eye.  It looks a little thinner than my memory displayed it, but it is the same tree. 
           “Remember when you fell out of that tree, Chris?” I say.
           “Of course I remember, I broke my arm.”
           “I tried to catch you, or at least I wanted to, but I froze, I just watched you fall to the ground like some cheesy slow motion scene in a movie.”
         I had figured that saying something would make the mood better, or thin the air a little, but I was wrong, it only made things feel a little worse.  I still wanted something to cut the air, but nobody else replied.  I turn my head forward and stare out the window some more.  We get to 8 mile road and make a left, heading for Gratiot Ave. and the funeral home. 
         I’ve never been to a viewing before, and I never really planned on going to one.  This morning my mother told me it would be an open casket viewing.  Grieving for someone is understandable, you need to do it.  If you hold all those emotions on the inside, well, you might just lose it.  But I don’t understand why you would want to have an open casket.  Personally I don’t want to see my grandmother laying in this box, it seems more comforting to have a closed casket, maybe just to trick yourself into believing that the person might not be in here.  Besides I don’t want the last memory of my loved ones to be that scene.
         Chris turns into Brown and Sons Funeral Home. I see the majority of my family standing outside waiting to go in.  They stand in little clusters, some crying, all looking low and dispirited.  The scene reminds me of movies where there is a funeral in it.  But, this isn’t a movie, this is real life.  As much as I’d love for this to be a movie or a dream, I have to realize the reality of the situation.
         Chris parks the car, and I open the passenger door to get out.  I see my mother walking with my grandfather toward the building.  I stretch when I finally stand up, and notice my sister walking alone toward the building too.  Chris and I start in that direction also.  I feel sick to my stomach the closer and closer I get to the building.  I know what I’m about to face, the reality of this whole situation is coming straight at me in the form of a funeral home. 
         Everyone stands outside the door and out comes the head of the funeral home. 
           “Are you all ready to come in?” he asks.
         A few member shake their heads signaling that they are ready.  I want to object, and I want to scream no, no I’m not ready.  There is no way I’m going in there.  My mouth never opens, and my objections are never heard.  My mouth isn’t the only part of my body that is frozen, I stand as stiff as the Tin Man in “The Wizard of Oz”. 
         I feel a hand grasp mine and I look to my right.  My mother stands beside me with her hand holding mine and she stares straight ahead.  Like Dorothy’s oil, the confidence that has formed, motivates me forward once again.
         We enter the building and follow Mr. Brown down a long hall of green carpet, walls and furniture.  The dark wood desks all have some type of flower arraignment on them.  As I walk we pass a few sliding doors with names above them.  James Masterson, Daphne Wilson, and finally I see it.  Mr. Brown stops in front of the door with my grandmothers name above it.  Rose Keller, the name looks so out of place here that again I wish that I would just wake up from this all too real nightmare.  I decide to look down at my feet.
         Mr. Brown stands in front of the sliding curtain and says something about how long the viewing will be.  I can hardly hear him though, blocking him out along with the rest of this situation.  He slides the curtain and I look up, the room is full of couches and tables.  Wood chairs, and special family sent flower arraignments.  I don’t see my grandmother, though, and I think to myself, maybe this really is a dream.  We start moving again my mother and I, standing beside my grandfather and aunt Sherry, leading the rest of the family.  The first thing I feel is the cold conditioned air hit my face, and I hear the music they pipe through the speakers, some kind of funeral home elevator music.  I cant stand listening to it, one more thing added to the uncomfortable reality that sickens my stomach.
         I notice another curtain to the right, that’s open.  Closer, and closer yet.  My mother is already crying.  I need to calm myself, its just something I need to do, deep breaths.  Closer, another breath.  The other room comes more and more into view, my chest heaves a little, another bumpy breath, another step closer.  Run, run away, please god wake me up. 
         I see her.
         I hit a wall.  I’m frozen, and I jam my eyes shut once again.  A tidal wave of all the emotion and memories pent up, shudders through my body and I heave over and over again.  I’m a child again, balling my eyes out.  There is nothing in this world that could hold off this feeling and these tears.  My legs weaken and I want to fall.  I hear myself call out to god over and over again.  Oh god.  I will not open my eyes, this is not the last memory I want of my grandmother, the woman who nurtured all her kids and grand kids.  Oh god why. Questions, memories, and more questions, aimed at god, spin and swirl throughout my mind like a whirlpool.
         Suddenly I’m moving over to the left, and guided into a chair. I can hear my mother telling me it’s ok, but my only reply is no over and over and over again.  Her hand releases from my shoulder and I look up.  I see my grandfather being ushered toward my grandmothers casket, and my mother walking in the same direction.  I look down into the palm of my hands and calm a bit.  I look over to my right and my cousin sits beside me crying just the same.  Seeing my family mourn like this and being in this place makes me wonder why anyone would want to do this.  I have no courage to step to the casket and I sit in the chair staring into my hands.
         I feel alone, but I know I’m not alone.  Every so often someone from my family walks over to me and places their hand on my left shoulder.  It’s always the same thing.
         “It’ll be ok.”
         I know this, and although I feel alone I don’t want to be bothered.  I need this time alone, this time to build the courage to face death, death of a loved one, someone who won’t be in my life anymore.  I don’t want this to be my last memory of her, but I need to say my goodbyes.  Moments pass, family and friends, have all taken their turn to say their goodbyes. 
         Deep breath.
         I wipe the tears and stand up.
         Slowly, I walk over to the casket.  She looks as though she’s sleeping and that comforts me a little more.  Before the casket,  is a kneeling pew.  Throughout the entire afternoon one by one or sometimes in pairs, the family would come to the casket, kneel and say their peace and goodbyes.
         I take a deep breath, and decide to kneel.  I look into the casket.  My grandmother is wearing the same pink dress that she wore when she renewed her vows, after fifty years of being married to my grandfather.  I fight back tears and close my eyes.
         I wish I could have seen you again.  One last time before you left.  You know, I always wanted to come back.  Especially, when you got sick.  I guess I’m trying to say that talking on the phone just wasn’t good enough.  I miss you. And I love you so, so, much.  I’m sorry, for all the times that I was a bad kid, and didn’t listen.  I’m sorry for every time I hurt your feelings, or talked back.  I should have told you these things before, but god, man, god likes to pull the rug out from under you, you know?  What are we going to do now?  You are the support for this family.  Who will keep this family solid?  I now have no reason to return home.  I love you, and I will miss you always.
           “Are you ok?”
         I open my eyes, and look up and to my right.  My mother stands next to me.  She places her hand on my back and rubs a little.
           “Yeah.”
         I smile up at her, feeling a little better overcoming the fear of facing death.  I decide to stand up.  I look down into the casket one more time.
         “ I’ll see you soon.  Goodbye, grandma.”
I walk over to one of the couches, and sit down.
         Detroit will never be the same.  I’m plagued with depressing questions.  What will happen to the family now?  With grandma, now gone, a link in our chain is now missing.  Will our tower crumble and fall to the ground?  I see my sister losing it already.  She was closer to her more than any of us kids were, being the oldest.  Why are all the comfortable things that I love, and have longed for in the past now seem so uncomfortable.  I’m growing up and leaving behind more than my memories, I’m leaving a piece of myself behind.  I guess we all are leaving a piece of ourselves behind.  Will we leave too much?  Too much to move on, on our own?
         What will we do now?
         
        The funeral is tomorrow.