shake it.
I am not
ready.
Marissa and I
met at the local pool
when we were five.
It was the same summer
that my mom and I moved here.
The story goes:
One of us had a box of Nerds.
The other one asked for some.
Nerds were shared.
Best friends status was established.
We can never agree
which one of us had the candy.
She insists it was me,
but that’s not how I remember it.
And since then,
we’ve had sleepovers,
told secrets,
and talked on the phone
late into the night.
We were together when we
smoked our first cigarette,
stole lipsticks from the drugstore,
watched horror movies that made us scream,
once laughed so hard
that we actually pissed ourselves,
and blew out birthday candles
for the last eleven years in a row.
But walking to the cemetery
for Brian’s funeral
is not
something I thought
we would ever do.
Marissa slips her arm in mine
and we begin.
Each time I take a step,
it feels like I am not
making any progress—
like someone is pulling the church
farther and farther away from me.
But it doesn’t matter
how I feel.
Marissa moves me forward.
She is in charge of my body.
And even though this is the first time
I have seen or talked to her in weeks,
I could not imagine doing this
with anyone but her.
As we enter the church,
I walk past a bunch of guys
that I’ve seen Brian hang around with,
but never officially met.
I look at them and wonder,
Did Brian ever talk about me?
Do you even know who I am?
One of the guys looks up as I walk by.
He holds my gaze for a moment,
but then looks down again.
His eyes tell me nothing.
Marissa only met Brian twice,
both times briefly,
and I wonder if his funeral
counts as the third time.
Since Brian and I started
hanging out a few months ago,
Marissa’s listened to me complain
about how Brian would disappear
for days and not call.
How he’d forget we made plans.
How sometimes I felt
like I was just a girl
he wanted to make out with,
not make a future with.
But there were good things
about Brian too.
Marissa never seemed
to want to hear about them.
She insisted
that I was wasting my time with him.
So when Marissa refused
to listen to any more of my stories,
I talked to Joy or Parker.
Like when I told them about
the time Brian’s parents went on vacation,
and I lied and told my mom
that I was sleeping at Joy’s.
That night Brian and I
got into his bed and watched
A Clockwork Orange, his favorite movie.
The house was silent except for the TV
and our occasional voices.
I pretended it was our house.
That we were married.
That he loved me.
And I wondered,
Is this how it might feel
one day for real?
Perfect and normal.
I wished it would always be like this—
ordinary.
In the morning,
we sat at his dining room table
and ate Cinnamon Toast Crunch.
He brought out the bowls and spoons,
and I brought out the milk.
Up until then,
I’d only seen Brian eat pizza and chips—
things that didn’t require utensils.
So I was surprised
to see how he held his spoon.
Instead of just curling his pointer finger
around the spoon’s stem,
he used his middle finger too.
I don’t know why, but it was.
Maybe because it made him seem
like a little kid
or maybe because now I knew
one of his subtle quirks.
And that made him closer to me.
All eyes are on Brian.
His casket is up by the altar.
It’s the first thing I see
when we walk in
and it’s impossible
not to stare right at it—
especially because it’s open.
Marissa asks,
“Do you want to say good-bye?”
Her question is ridiculous.
I said good-bye to Brian
after we hung out
a few days ago.
He was fine.
There was no reason to think
I would never see him again.
I want to see Brian
and I don’t.
I haven’t seen him in days
and I miss him—
miss his face.
But I’m scared.
Scared of what he’ll look like.
Scared because this means it’s over.
That he is gone.
That he is not
coming back.
This is a different kind
of good-bye.
Marissa’s arm is linked with mine.
It has not shifted
since we met at my house.
I feel her grip tighten a little
as we walk down the aisle.
We are like a father and bride
on her wedding day.
We move slowly.
Both anticipating,
and maybe also fearing,
what is at the end
of this slow, careful march.
But my father and I
will never
take this walk.
And all the fantasies
I’ve had of Brian
meeting me at the altar
never looked like this.
As we get closer to him,
I feel my face and body start to burn.
It’s a cold burn.
My body is prickling.
It feels like there are spines
poking through my skin.
I used to get a similar feeling
whenever I’d get near Brian.
But this is different.
It used to be pleasant, tingly.
This is painful, sharp.
I look down into the casket.
My stomach contracts.
Is that really Brian?
He doesn’t look right.
It’s like a wax version of him.
His coloring is off.
He’s in a suit.
There is a cross around his neck.
I am inches from him,
but there is no smell.
No clean laundry.
No deodorant.
No hair gel.
Nothing.
There is
nothing.
I do not feel
Marissa’s arm.
I do not feel
the floor.
I do not feel
my body.
I want to burrow into his neck
and feel the warmth,
&nbs
p; but this Brian looks cold.
This Brian
isn’t the one I know.
Throughout the service
I can’t decide if I feel
like my body is hollow,
light like a balloon,
or if I feel like my bones
are filled with cement.
I can’t decide if I am going
to drift up off the pew, into the air,
and bump into the ceiling,
or if my weight will send me crashing
through the pew, then floor, then earth
and I won’t stop falling
until I am deep underground
like Brian is about to be.
I put my head on Marissa’s shoulder
and look over at the casket again.
The box is smaller
than I thought it would be.
I want to lie down next to it
to measure.
I look at the podium
and see people speaking.
I see kids my age,
some adults, and a woman
I assume is Brian’s mother.
I see their mouths move,
but there is no sound.
It is a silent movie.
The one time
that I sort of met Brian’s dad
didn’t go how I’d hoped it would.
“Shit,” Brian said
as he looked out his bedroom window.
This was several weeks ago.
“He wasn’t supposed to be home
for another hour.
You need to go.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“Right now?”
“Yes.”
He handed me my bag.
I had never met either of Brian’s parents.
He usually ushered me out
before they got home.
I didn’t understand why.
Brian was always talking about
staying out all night.
Surely if his parents could handle that,
they wouldn’t mind
him having a girl in his room.
But maybe they weren’t the problem.
Maybe he was ashamed of me.
I took my bag from Brian,
put on my sneakers,
and followed him down the stairs.
I thought
maybe this made us even.
Brian had never met my mom either.
As we walked past the living room
and to the front door,
I caught a glimpse
of Brian’s dad on the couch.
His necktie was loosened,
he had a beer in one hand,
and the TV remote in the other.
He didn’t even look up
as we walked by.
There was a moment
of awkward silence
as I stood on the stoop with Brian.
I filled it with
“So, that’s the man
who made you?”
“He
didn’t
make
me.”
I bit my lip.
I had never heard Brian
speak in that tone before.
He said good-bye,
then shut the door.
Maybe it wasn’t me
he was ashamed of.
People are standing.
Marissa is lightly pulling me
up and toward the door.
People are filing out,
hugging, touching.
I hardly recognize anyone.
I wish there were more people
who knew me here.
That way they could hold me too,
stroke my hair
and tell me they know
how much it hurts.
But there isn’t anyone
besides Marissa.
When Marissa and I walk out of the church,
the summer sun is blinding.
The insides of the church
were white and cool.
Now everything is painfully bright.
The blue sky, green grass,
and yellow sun are like jewels.
But then I see
all those flat gray stones.
We all parade to the spot
that’s been dug for Brian.
The ground is uneven
and it’s hard to stand.
But maybe that’s just me.
We are each given a single white rose
and then the priest starts up again.
But I’m not listening.
I’m staring at the rose, thinking,
How long before
this flower starts to wilt?
How long before Brian starts to…
I look away.
I shouldn’t think
these things.
Brian’s mom is wailing.
She can barely support
her own weight.
It’s like she has no bones.
Brian’s dad is at her side,
trying to support her.
That’s when I notice
that he and Brian
have the same cloudy blue eyes.
There are loads of kids here.
Most are huddled together,
holding hands,
sniffling, crying.
I always wanted
to hang out with Brian’s friends,
to have him introduce me
as his girlfriend.
But neither of those things ever happened.
And now there’s no one
to introduce me.
No one
to confirm the way that I knew Brian.
It’s like I,
we,
didn’t exist.
When the priest is done
reciting prayers, he says,
“And now, Brian’s best friend, Peter,
would like to say a few additional words.”
Peter steps forward.
He is holding a piece of paper.
I look to see if his hand shakes.
It doesn’t.
“This is a poem by Henry Scott Holland.
‘Death is nothing at all.
I have only slipped away into the next room.
I am I and you are you.
Whatever we were to each other,
That we are still.
Call me by my old familiar name.
Speak to me in the easy way you always used.
Put no difference into your tone.
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.
Laugh as we always laughed
at the little jokes we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me. Pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household word
that it always was.
Let it be spoken without effort.
Without the ghost of a shadow on it.
Life means all that it ever meant.
It is the same as it ever was.
There is absolute unbroken continuity.
What is death but a negligible accident?
Why should I be out of mind
because I am out of sight?
I am but waiting for you for an interval
Somewhere very near
Just around the corner.
All is well.’”
That is it.
That is where he stops.
After everyone tosses their rose
into Brian’s grave
we begin to walk away.
Marissa gives my arm a little squeeze
and asks, “Do you want to go
to the after-thing?
It’s at Brian’s house.”
There are ghosts in this house.
Brian is one.
I am another.
But Brian is all over this house.
There are photos.
There are memories of him
that are collectively shared
by friends and family.
I am a different kind of ghost.
There are no traces of me here
except for my fingerprints.
Brian was the only other person
who shared my memories here.
And now that he’s gone,
I am their sole keeper.
Marissa gets up to go to the bathroom
and an older woman sits down next to me.
She’s got the same cloudy blue eyes
as Brian and his dad.
She turns to me and extends her hand.
“I’m Freda, Brian’s grandmother.”
“Annaleah,” I say as I take her hand.
Her skin is transparent
like tracing paper, but soft and warm.
Mountainous veins ridge her hand.
“You all are too young for this,”
she says, then sips her water.
“When I lost Joey, my husband,
there was warning.
He was sick. Old.
But Brian.
So sudden. So sudden.”
She sips again.
“Did you and Brian go to school together?”
“No. I—We—”
I can’t even begin to explain,
but her eyes seem to understand.
Could Brian have told her about me?
She slides her hand over mine.
Strokes it.
It feels so different
from Marissa’s.
Marissa’s hand is firm.
This hand is light.
It slides over mine like silk.
Brian’s dad is sitting on the deck.
All I can see is his back.
He’s got a cigarette in one hand,
a beer in the other,
and a lot of empties at his feet.
Brian’s dad didn’t speak at the funeral,
and I haven’t seen or heard him talking
to anyone this afternoon.
And since I always called Brian on his cell,
I’ve never even heard his dad’s voice.
Maybe he doesn’t have one.
I want to get away from all these strangers.