Wild Wylie

Everyone wore black that day – black dresses, black ties, black shoes, and black jewelry. I was the only one who attended the dreaded day wearing some cutoffs, red Toms, and a t-shirt I had scavenged off of my boyfriend’s floor. I was the odd man out; it was an intangible feeling, being the oddball, but I didn’t wake up this morning and fret about some stupid cloth. Oscar wouldn’t care about my clothes – no, he’s dead. He’s sitting in the wooden box in the middle of a sea of black-clothed people. They thought about their clothes this morning; “Honey, does this black dress look good on me?” and “My gosh, I need to find something black to wear! I’m going to a funeral!”

Personally, I think they’re all assholes. I came here with my Starbucks coffee in hand, mourning the loss of a confidant, not hoping my butt looked right in my too-tight black dress. I was a true friend, and Oscar knows I love him dearly. I wore his favorite necklace, the one he gave me our senior year of high school. It was a precious gift, he had said, and it was his Grandmother’s. She was gone now and, well, so was he.

I stepped forward through the menacing crowd, smiling and nodding my head to the older folks, who were probably relatives. They all hated me. I wasn’t distraught about the passing of Oscar – I didn’t look bedridden and terrible; I didn’t have bags under my eyes. Well, tell me, dear people, does it look like Oscar gives a fuck what I look like? No, no he doesn’t. My presence is enough – my love, my heart, my soul, they’re here for Oscar and Oscar alone.

When the people cleared the way and I finally spotted Oscar’s body’s new home, I felt my heart twinge. I didn’t like him being so cramped up in that wooden box, but I knew, deep down inside, that he – Oscar himself – wasn’t inside that box. The encasing of his soul, the part of him that wasn’t him at all, just a picture for us to ogle at, was in that box. Oscar himself – the beautiful person that I fell in love with, was in this necklace, in my mind, in my heart – my memories.

Shakespeare once wrote a poem about a woman. It said: “Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, / When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st: / So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, / So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.” I felt the same for Oscar; Oscar was still alive that day.

I loved his mother, who stood next to me before I left, thanking me for all of the wonderful memories I helped her son experience. She had tears in her eyes. They were beyond her eyes, though; they were in her soul. She knew what I had been thinking all along – she was just ready to meet this fine, young soul again one day. We all were.