Voices echo around me, but I don’t really hear them. I can’t. All I can focus on is the mahogany coffin in front of me because inside it is my son.
I think the service was beautiful. I don’t know for certain as it felt like I was viewing it through the eyes of a stranger. How can I accept this reality, a reality where Misha doesn’t exist?
A sob gets caught in my throat and fresh tears fall down my cheeks. I don’t think they’ll ever stop.
Joy organized this simple, yet tasteful funeral for Misha. He wouldn’t want a fuss. It didn’t surprise me the chapel was overflowing with people. Everyone loved Misha. His friends gave a beautiful account of who my son was.
He touched so many people. But now, he won’t be able to touch anybody ever again because he’s inside that fucking coffin. And it’s my fault. I should have been in that car, not him. I should have told him to stay home and get the medication in the morning. It was so wet and cold out. He should have stayed home.
I measure my breaths as I know I’m on the cusp of hyperventilating—again.
When I was asked if Misha’s wishes were to be buried or cremated, I answered neither, as his wishes were to be alive and well. But as that will never be an option ever again, I decided for cremation as the only way to hug my son from here on in will be in the white ceramic vase I chose his ashes to be in.
I thump my clenched fists against my legs, angered life would be such a cruel, sadistic bitch. It gave me a son I loved with everything I was, only for him to be taken away before he even got the chance to live.
The day Misha died, I died too, and this person now, is just a shell of her former self as I will never heal. I don’t want to as life has lost all meaning for me. I have nothing to live for anymore.
Joy has been a great support. She has taken on the burden of organizing all of this because all I want to do is close the curtains, lie in bed, and sleep away this pain. But I doubt it’ll ever go away.
“People will be arriving at my house for the wake, sweetie. Are you ready to go?”
Looking at the coffin, I feel myself about to break and it’s not going to be pretty. “Can you take me home?”
“Of course, but do you think that’s a good idea? You shouldn’t be alone.”
“That’s all I want to be. Please take me home.”
I know this is highly impolite to not attend my son’s wake, but the thought of watching people eating, talking and…breathing twists my stomach into knots. If I am on the verge of a messy breakdown, I prefer it to be alone, and not with people looking at me with those faces filled with pity.
I don’t want their pity. I just want my son.
Joy eventually agrees to take me home as she knows my mind is made up. Just as we are about to exit the chapel, Trista, Misha’s girlfriend, meets us at the door. She throws her arms around me, sobbing into my shoulder.
I stand rigid because she was only dating Misha for six months. What right does she have to cry? But I know this is just my grief talking. But I can’t help but feel numb to this all.
“I am so so-sorry,” she cries loudly.
“Thank you.” It’s all I can muster, as I am not here to console anyone. No one understands the loss of a mother losing her child.
“We were talking about getting a place together. And we often spoke about the future. He wanted to have a big family. We had so many plans. But now…now he’s gone.”
Every part of my body begins to scorch. I envision pushing Trista off me and slamming her lovely face into the stone wall—over and over again. Or better still, ramming her head through the stained glass window and seeing it shatter around her. It would rain so many pretty colors, interspersed with her blood.
A giggle bubbles from me and both Trista and Joy look at me as this is hardly an appropriate time to be laughing. But how dare she think she knows my son better than me. From what Misha told me, Trista was just someone to have fun with.
She was a little on the possessive side and Misha was thinking of breaking it off.
So to hear her say they were something serious when I know he never saw a future with her, has me wishing to gauge out her eyeballs and to rip out her deceitful tongue.
This violence frightens me, but when I suddenly see a flicker behind Trista, a flicker of Misha in his football gear, I wonder if maybe that’s what I need to deal with this insufferable pain.
“Trista, I’m taking Luna home.” It appears Joy is sick of Trista’s theatrics too.
“Oh? You’re not attending the wake? That’s probably a good idea. I will let everyone know.”
Of course, she sees this as her opportunity to shine and brag about her time with Misha, hoping to gain whatever sympathy she can. I don’t know who died and left her in charge. I suddenly wish I used a different phrase.
What is the matter with me?
I am suddenly so fucking angry. The sadness has subsided and made room for…this.
“When you’re feeling…better—” I try not to scoff as there is no better in this scenario. “I was wondering if I could talk to you about Misha. He was…”
But she never gets to finish as Joy cuts Trista off. “This can wait. We are at her son’s funeral.”
Trista nods, appearing genuinely sorry for bringing up whatever she wanted to say.
Joy senses my shift in demeanor and quickly ushers us from the chapel and toward her black Mercedes which is parked out front. People watch me closely and I hate it. I don’t know what they expect to see.
Joy takes off while I sigh in relief. Thank God that freak show is over with. I do wonder what Trista wanted to say.
Joy tries to make conversation, but eventually gives up when I simply stare out the passenger window, silent. The landscape passes me by and the dismal gray weather is a perfect reflection of how I am feeling inside.
I trace the raindrops on the window with my finger, leaving a pattern in the condensation. I know Joy is watching me closely, concerned by my behavior.
When we pull up at my house, I open the door and without a word, I take off my heels and make my way toward the front door. Joy’s quickened footsteps behind me reveal her worries, but I just want to be alone. I unlock the door and make clear I don’t want Joy to come in.
“Luna, are you going to be okay?”
Turning to look at her, I smile. It’s strained, but I don’t want to worry her any more than I have. “I just want to go to sleep. Thank you for everything.”