Something Death Had Touched

I went to your funeral today.

The church was dimly lit, the candles doing most of the work to bring light to the solemn day, though it seemed like nothing could lift up the spirits of anyone anytime soon. 

The organ had been playing softly in the background. It was playing your favorite church song, Amazing Grace. You had always expressed how, if you had ever died, that song was to be played before and after the ceremony. It was a beautiful song, the lyrics impossible to beat and the melody able to put anyone in a daze. 

But I never thought that this day would have come so soon. This day was supposed to come decades later, when you and I were old and wrinkly and had gray hair. Our friends and family were all supposed to be deceased, and we would have been the only two left - we had always said how we'd outlive everyone. 

But there you were, lying there in all your glory, where you were the most comfortable: Front and center, and having everyone's attention. 

The wake had been an open casket. Instead of the usual suit or tux men usually wore on that day, you had insisted one time many months ago that you wanted to be in a sweater, jeans, your white Converse, and your olive-colored beanie. I had laughed at that. Your chocolate curls had been neatly pushed back, the beanie covering most of them; but some on the edges had managed to peak their ways out, curling around your ears. It was nice and neat, very unlike the way you had usually just thrown it on, not really caring how it looked.

You looked like you were sleeping, though. And that's what bothered me the most. Your eyes were closed, naturally, and your lips were sealed. However, that same Harry Style's smirk that had once made me go weak at the knees for was just barely making its way on your mouth, your dimples indenting just a little. Typical. You always seemed to manage to smile at even the saddest times. That's just how you were. God, I was going to miss your smile so much.

The morticians had done a phenomenal job at cleaning up the blood and glass. You looked flawless, just like you always did. 

At the funeral, the casket was closed, a British flag draped over, and a bed of colorful flowers (peonies, your - and my - favorite) on top of that. Center stage, just like when you were performing.

Your mother grabbed my shoulder, and asked me to come sit with your family at the front pew. She looked exhausted, like she had been crying nonstop since the news came, and to be honest, she probably had. We all have. I didn't think I could sit with them, though; I thought it was for family only, and had expressed these thoughts to her. But she shook her head, and despite her state, she gave the softest of smiles. "He would want you to sit with us, up front. You were so special to him. Besides, you're like a second daughter to me."

She tugged me along, and I followed her, despite wanting to run away as far as I could and vomit until my internal organs came out. I sat next to your sister, who was red-eyed and fragile, and I grabbed her hand. She was beautiful, just like you, with your eyes and dark hair. Gemma was a sweetheart who I knew loved you with every fiber of her being. She had taken this so hard.

"Did he tell you what it means when I do three squeezes?" Her eyes filled with tears. I nodded.

Of course I knew; we used to do it all the time. I remembered that day, in the park, when you first had shown it to me. It was one of your rare days off back home, and we decided to just get away from the craziness of the city. We were lying in the tall grass that had grown up to your knees, and kept pointing out clouds and saying what we saw in them. You used to come up with the most insane ones. I'll still never see the half dragon, half duck that you claimed you saw. 

You had rolled over and rested your head on my stomach, your green, green eyes (I used to call them emeralds, do you remember?) staring up at me. You took my hand, laced our fingers with such ease. And squeezed three times. You pushed away your curly locks, and I knew you wished you had a beanie on, but I had protested, said I wanted to see your hair for a once. I loved your hair. It was so much fun to play with, to tug at. You smiled, "Three squeezes for I-Love-You." I smiled back, thought it was the most beautiful, simple thing anyone had ever said, and squeezed back four. I-Love-You-Too.

Gemma brought me back by nudging me with her elbow, and everyone stared at me, expecting me to do something. Oh, right. The eulogy. I was asked to give it. Why? I had no idea. I had thought someone from your family was supposed to give it, that they wanted to give it. But your step-father told me to give it, and I had to accept.  How could I not? 

So I walked up to the podium with wobbling knees, and stared at everyone that was staring back at me. Your entire family was there, and all your friends, and even some of their family that had grown close to you. Your - our, actually, but initially your - four best friends were in the second row, looking absolutely dashing in their black suits. Their usual happy and excited faces held solemn expressions, and I know you would have hated that you were the reason for it. 

"Harry was my best friend. The one person who I could tell anything. Often times I would tell him my worries, my fears, and he would smile at me and say, 'Love, ya think that's gonna matter a year from now? Ten years from now? No, what's goin' ta matter is if your happy. Just be happy, that's all.'" Many laughed softly at my attempt at your British accent. It wasn't as great as it usually was, my voice wavering and stuttering. I used to mock your accent all the time and had gotten so good at it by the end. You used to love it, though, had said it was adorable and then mocked my American accent. I always laughed at that; the way your used to say some things were hilarious. But I had to continue, these people were expecting a speech from me. "I don't think many of us are happy today, and Harry would've hated that. When we were little kids, he used to tell me he wanted to be one of Santa's elves when he grew up, because they were the happiest people in the world," I laughed softly. I always loved that memory. You had been so intent on being Santa's Little Helper. "Their jobs were to make people happy. That's what he wanted. That's why he sang: To make people happy. Well, when we grew up and he found out about Santa, I think that dream flew out the window.

"Harry loved singing, and he loved performing. He used to say it felt like his first night every time he was in a new city. He'd get such an adrenaline rush. He was so happy, and he was happy he made other people happy, too." I took a deep breath. My eyes were stinging by this point, the salty layer of water threatening to fall down if I didn't hurry up quickly. "And he would want all of us to be happy; I think we all owe him that. To at least try to be happy. Because God knows he's up there making silly faces trying to get all of us to smile."

I stopped then. I lost it. Your sister, who was always crying, walked to the podium, took my hand and lead us back to our seat. She handed me a few tissues, though it seemed like I needed the whole box.

I listened to the rest of the service, and watched pictures of your smiling face flash across a screen. All the while, your sister's hand was in mine to keep me together.

The last picture flashed across the screen, my favorite of you. I had taken it when we were in my room, having a lazy day. You were in gray sweats and a white v-neck. Your hair was a bit of a mess, but we didn't care, and your eyes were bright. You had my large, fluffy comforter wrapped around your body, your smile wide and infectious and showed off your dimples to the max. God, I loved your smile. The words, 'We won't forget.' appeared in white letters over the picture, large and strong to get the message across, as if we needed telling. Forget you? Never.

I wiped the tears from my eyes, took a deep breath, and stood up. Zayn, Niall, Liam, and Louis were now carrying you down the isle for the cemetery, and your family started to follow. But I stood still, unable to look away from your picture. You were gone.

I felt someone grab my hand and lace our fingers, then squeeze three times.

When I turned around, there was no one there.

I love you, too, Harry.