Three Different Times...

I have stood in this funeral home three different times now. Back when I was fourteen and my Mamaw had passed away, I couldn't approach the coffin to say goodbye for a long time. My mom tried to make me go, but my Uncle George made her stop and kept me at his side until I could. I hated it. I hated seeing the bruises on her arms from all the IV's. I took my makeup out and tried to fix it repeatedly, but the bruise just wouldn't fade. It infuriated me. I wasn't supposed to see my Mamaw like this. She was supposed to be there always. Wasn't she?

Then tenth grade. I was sixteen. A few months before my drama classes spring play I was watching the royal rumble with my Uncle George, Aunt Louise, my nieces, and mum. It was fun. I took pictures, made bets on what was going to happen with my Uncle. We had pizza and drinks. It was great. That summer we were going to have a barbecue. He was going to fix the shed. Then one night mom woke me up. Uncle George had passed away before the play. The play he had planned to come see me at and get a laugh because I was playing a guy. I hugged my Aunt Louise at visitation. I saw more of her after that. Well, as much as I could. I couldn't drive at the time. I felt so broken. The man who had been there for not only me, but everyone that he could, he loved so many people. He was so kind and gentle and would always make sure you were loved. Gone...

Now I sit in here again, away from the rest of my family. I can't take another funeral, but I'm here. I'm here apologizing for not visiting her like I kept saying I would. My Aunt Louise passed away this past weekend. I can't even go near the coffin. Her youngest grandchild asks when his nana is going to wake up.

And I'm scared. Who else am I going to have to say goodbye to?
October 20th, 2015 at 01:28am