Coffin

Coffin
by
Joseph Allen


I never liked him much, but my parents made me come. The place smelled like old ladies and cigarette smoke. Combined with the depressing attitude of the people there, I felt like I was going to burst at the seams.
The deceased mother, apparently remembering me as one of Howard’s classmates, hugged me and cried tears onto my shirt. It was so uncomfortable and awkward that I felt like pushing her away, but I knew that would have been ill advised.
After she had her way with me, I moved to the front of the room, where the coffin was placed.
I looked at it.
It was Howard or Howie as we used to call him. He was dressed in his Little League baseball outfit. Apparently, his parents must have thought he’d have a better chance of getting into heaven if he met God wearing his baseball uniform.
He was so still, I remember thinking that if I poked him, he would suddenly spring up.
I was twelve, what did I know about death?
The only thing I knew for certain was that Howie wouldn’t be throwing me strikeouts anymore during baseball games.
Then, I saw Jessica from biology class. Somehow, she had walked up next to me and was staring into the coffin with me.
I looked away from the coffin and then to her and saw she was chewing on a big piece of gum and attempting to blow bubbles with it.
Finally, I said, “Hi, how are you?”
She said, “Bored, I can’t believe my mom made me come to this shit. You?”
“Pretty much the same.”
After an awkward pause, I said, “Howie looks a little pale today, don’t you think?”
We both covered our mouths and giggled.