A Lesson In Lamenting

Heaven and hell are not as vastly different as people believe. They are in fact the same: everyone sits around a table covered with the finest foods all made to perfection, but their hands are bound so that they can not bring the bread to their lips. In hell people fight and starve because of it, but in heaven the people feed each other by lifting the food to their neighbors. My sister once told me this concept of heaven and hell, and it is one that has lasted in the depths of my memory.
I picture you bringing up the aliment to your neighbors’ mouth, and bringing an expression of happiness to their faces. You don’t look like I remember you, with your thick glasses and slick-backed grey hair. Your breast pocket is empty where the battery for your throat microphone battery rests, and there is no gauze pad covering your throat. It never seemed fair to me that smoking stole your voice. I wish I could hear it now.
I’d like to think that this is you when you returned from the Pacific Theater. The free world was beginning to return back to normal, after it was almost brought to its knees by the Axis powers. It was a fresh start, and this is when you met your wife. Your uniform sat next to your casket as family and friends said their last goodbyes. I felt the worn fabric and black buttons. I am not sure why, but I am glad I did. I don’t remember what I said to you when I had my chance to see you for the last time. It might have been something meaningful, or maybe beautiful, but I know it wasn’t. I have always been bad with goodbyes, and you were the first person I said a final farewell to.
*

My two cousins and I are attempting to catch crawfish in the creek behind my Aunt Susan’s house. A family reunion is taking place further up the lawn, where a group of fifty people relive their pasts together, and tell new tales they have experienced. I find the crawfish pinching my fingers seems a better alternative than my relatives clenching my cheeks. My father told me not to get dirty, but the combination of water and soil make it an impossible task.
My aunt ceases any more possible attempts to catch crawfish, as she tells us that we are taking a family picture now. I head up the dirt walls of the creek and onto the lawn. The smoke of barbeque escapes from a large grill that has been constantly lit since daybreak. I make eye contact with my father, expecting to be yelled at for getting dirty, but instead he tosses me a shirt. I unfold it to reveal a picture of you and a banner saying, “Hintzens’ Family Reunion.”
I walk to the front of the house where I see everyone assembling into a group. I try to respond to orders, but they come from everyone direction. All I see is a sea of green and yellow shirts, as I try and fall in line. After twenty minutes of confusion, the picture is ready to be taken.
My aunt sets the timer, and begins the countdown. It is one of those three flash cameras that prevent red eye, but the effect is blinding. Everyone staggers in different directions, but my aunt yells that one more needs to be taken. I move back to my place in the group and rub the light from my eyes. Someone turns me around, as I don’t even realize I am facing the wrong way. I can only listen for the count to know when to hold a smile. I hold it until I hear the shuffling of people, then begin to follow the footsteps. The picture is placed on the mantle above the fireplace in my house, and never has been moved since.
*

I watch as the phone tumbles from my mother’s hand to the floor. A silence takes to the autumn air.
“Grandpa’s dead,” she says in a series of syllables; each one stinging more than the last. Her lips shiver. My world goes blank. She stumbles towards me, as I hold out my waiting arms. Everything is blurry. I can’t tell if it is tears or reality.
My mother mumbles sadness into my flesh. The tears pierce through my shirt like warm daggers being embedded in my chest. I rub my mother’s back, not sure what to say. I want to feel sadness, but all I feel is frustration. Anger engulfs every neuron of my mind and my thoughts swelter.
I mouth words, but I hear nothing.
My mother whispers that you died in your sleep. No one found you for days; the smell was unbearable. Her words are cold, almost mechanical. I don’t want to hear the things she is saying.
Images of you flicker like a focusing movie projector in my mind. They move so quickly. I want them to slow down but they don’t. They can’t.
My hands tremble with the idea that I will only see you again in my thoughts. I fear that they are already fading, so I try to recall them. There is nothing. I only hear my mother’s sobs. There is a strange ache that rattles along my veins starting from my heart.
A breeze comes through the house, causing the wind chimes to sing. My mother stops crying, looking at them draping from the window. We listen to the sounds for a few minutes staring off into nothing.
I try to come up with a prayer, but can only come up with a wish- that I was there when you fell asleep, so that you wouldn’t have died alone.

*

Every time I go to my room, there is a collage of photographs of you hanging in the hallway that I like to look at when passing by. My favorite is the one where you hold my brother and I like barrels when we were little. I don’t remember when it was taking, but this is when I usually begin to think of the questions I would ask you. You lived for seventy-eight years, but I only was around for sixteen of them. I ask my mother about stories she remembers. She is always willing to tell, but they are her memories. It isn’t the same as when you told stories through the hoarse voice of the microphone. I still have not cried for your death. My mother cried. My brother cried. Sometimes I think I should force myself to, so that I could say I have, but I never do. I ask my parents stories about their past often, and maybe that is how I grieve: by keeping memories of you alive. It might not be enough, but I hope you understand.

*

The basement is dark as my brother and I fortify the windows to prevent glare from interrupting our videogames. It is the beginning of summer, so our first priority is to go to Blockbuster and spend the next three days isolated from the heat and sun. It is the second day in when we hear sounds coming from the television upstairs. It cuts through the repetitive music coming from the videogame, and echoes around my ears.
We creep towards the stairs like cartoon characters; our steps quick but bodies stiff. The sunlight shines in through the front door and I momentarily blind. I whisper to my brother to be quiet, as I take the first step. I test the waiting carpet to make sure it won’t creak. It seems safe, so I take the next step. We reach the platform where the front door is. The noise is distinct.
“Grandpa’s watching porno,” I say to my brother. He chokes on laughter, as his cheeks expand trying to remain silent. I begin the next of stairs which leads to second floor of the house. This time I check each one with my hand as I climb the steps. First step- second step- third step. I catch a glimpse of the television. My brother shuffles up another stair to get a better vantage point.
“Get the hell out of there!” you say. My hair stands up, as feedback takes to your microphone. We throw ourselves down the stairs in order to get back to our haven.
“Why’d you move so fast?” I ask my brother.
“I couldn’t see.”
I nod. My heart is thumping too loud to comprehend anything to combat his explanation. We remain downstairs until dinner. You sit at the head of the table. None of us say a word to each other, as my father talks about work. It is my favorite meal, steak and mashed potatoes, but I don’t care for the taste. I just want the awkward dinner to end.
You divided a family of seven daughters, when you and grandma decided to get a divorce. I didn’t mind, since I got to see you everyday, rather than just holidays, but this is the first time I regretted that you were living with us. I wonder if grandma might have heard the same hiss, in those last few days of marriage when you were fighting.
“Some more chicken?” you say. You don’t use your microphone. Your voice is much softer, sounding like you push the words out. I can’t believe you broke the silence.
“Please.”
You take the plate and place a piece of chicken on it.
Thank you.”
You smile and continue eating.