Contributor: Marissa Medley
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When I met her for the first time, we were at a funeral. Everyone was so somber, which is to be expected at a gathering of the kind. It was interesting for me to see how everyone coped with the loss. Women cried into the arms of their husbands. Husbands patted the backs of their close friends saying things like “How unexpected” and “What a great loss”. The little children cried for their mothers and asked what was wrong. The mothers replied in sweet voices trying to keep in their tears. They didn't want to explain that someone they all once knew and loved had died. The crowd all around me was quiet and sad. Almost everyone had cried at some point except for me and her. When I looked at her, her face was even more blank than mine.
I felt uncomfortable to watch her. She was there just watching everyone pass by her. Like her, I was just there to support my family. We both watched as people passed by the body. The mother of the daughter who had died was crying hysterically. The cries reached a volume that seemed too loud to be coming out of a human body.
As other people started to go up to see the casket, I stayed behind to watch the children. There was something so beautiful in their innocence. I envied their ability to be at the funeral without feeling guilty that they were still alive. They had no idea that someday there would be a funeral for them. Soon though, they would find out how life ends.
One of the little girls I was watching ran over to her crying grandmother.
“What's wrong Gramma?” she asked.
“Gramma lost something very precious to her,” she answered while barely keeping her composure.
“What'd you lose, Gramma?”
“I lost a precious gem. A very, very, very precious gem,” the grandmother said while picked up the child. She held the girl so close as if she were afraid that death would fly in at that moment and take another granddaughter away from her.
The crying grandmother had made me feel horrible for not joining her in being sad. Instead, I just felt guilty. To take my mind off of the guilt, I looked up and saw the blank faced girl still there. Even though her face was blank, there was some sort of a peace in her expression. There were no tears coming from her eyes. She had been wearing an odd item for a funeral. On top of her head sat a tan cowboy hat. Nobody seemed to care or notice. They acted like it was just part of her.
“Would you like to come up and see the body?” asked a man I had come with.
I wasn't terribly excited to go up and see the body, but I wanted to show my respects. I didn't answer the man with words. I nodded my head and waited in line to see the body. I looked around and saw the people mourning. There were many young people there who looked shocked and confused. They didn't understand how someone so young and full of life could end up dead. I heard gossip from two old women behind me who had said that she died in a car crash. The driver had been speeding and they were not wearing seat belts. The women behind me seemed to be angry because such a stupid mistake of not putting on a seat belt killed the young girl.
Again I looked up at the girl with the blank face. At this point people were watching her and she was watching back even more intently. Her coldness had started to bother me.
When I got up to the casket her grandfather hugged me and thanked me for coming. He gave some trivial advice about driving that many people had told me before, except for when he said it there was more meaning. He had been affected by that piece of trivial advice more than anyone could know. I had finally started crying. I couldn’t control myself. The tears of previous losses, fears, and guilt had been set free.
When I looked down into the casket I saw the girl with the blank face. She was the girl who had tragically died in the accident. Her hat had covered up the damage from the accident. She was dead, but she was still watching everyone and I could tell. She wasn't sad.
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Marissa Medley is currently attending Toledo School for the Arts, where she takes a creative writing class. She writes prose and poetry. She also loves to read and is often inspired by J.D. Salinger and Sylvia Plath.
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When I met her for the first time, we were at a funeral. Everyone was so somber, which is to be expected at a gathering of the kind. It was interesting for me to see how everyone coped with the loss. Women cried into the arms of their husbands. Husbands patted the backs of their close friends saying things like “How unexpected” and “What a great loss”. The little children cried for their mothers and asked what was wrong. The mothers replied in sweet voices trying to keep in their tears. They didn't want to explain that someone they all once knew and loved had died. The crowd all around me was quiet and sad. Almost everyone had cried at some point except for me and her. When I looked at her, her face was even more blank than mine.
I felt uncomfortable to watch her. She was there just watching everyone pass by her. Like her, I was just there to support my family. We both watched as people passed by the body. The mother of the daughter who had died was crying hysterically. The cries reached a volume that seemed too loud to be coming out of a human body.
As other people started to go up to see the casket, I stayed behind to watch the children. There was something so beautiful in their innocence. I envied their ability to be at the funeral without feeling guilty that they were still alive. They had no idea that someday there would be a funeral for them. Soon though, they would find out how life ends.
One of the little girls I was watching ran over to her crying grandmother.
“What's wrong Gramma?” she asked.
“Gramma lost something very precious to her,” she answered while barely keeping her composure.
“What'd you lose, Gramma?”
“I lost a precious gem. A very, very, very precious gem,” the grandmother said while picked up the child. She held the girl so close as if she were afraid that death would fly in at that moment and take another granddaughter away from her.
The crying grandmother had made me feel horrible for not joining her in being sad. Instead, I just felt guilty. To take my mind off of the guilt, I looked up and saw the blank faced girl still there. Even though her face was blank, there was some sort of a peace in her expression. There were no tears coming from her eyes. She had been wearing an odd item for a funeral. On top of her head sat a tan cowboy hat. Nobody seemed to care or notice. They acted like it was just part of her.
“Would you like to come up and see the body?” asked a man I had come with.
I wasn't terribly excited to go up and see the body, but I wanted to show my respects. I didn't answer the man with words. I nodded my head and waited in line to see the body. I looked around and saw the people mourning. There were many young people there who looked shocked and confused. They didn't understand how someone so young and full of life could end up dead. I heard gossip from two old women behind me who had said that she died in a car crash. The driver had been speeding and they were not wearing seat belts. The women behind me seemed to be angry because such a stupid mistake of not putting on a seat belt killed the young girl.
Again I looked up at the girl with the blank face. At this point people were watching her and she was watching back even more intently. Her coldness had started to bother me.
When I got up to the casket her grandfather hugged me and thanked me for coming. He gave some trivial advice about driving that many people had told me before, except for when he said it there was more meaning. He had been affected by that piece of trivial advice more than anyone could know. I had finally started crying. I couldn’t control myself. The tears of previous losses, fears, and guilt had been set free.
When I looked down into the casket I saw the girl with the blank face. She was the girl who had tragically died in the accident. Her hat had covered up the damage from the accident. She was dead, but she was still watching everyone and I could tell. She wasn't sad.
- - -
Marissa Medley is currently attending Toledo School for the Arts, where she takes a creative writing class. She writes prose and poetry. She also loves to read and is often inspired by J.D. Salinger and Sylvia Plath.
Author:
Marissa Medley
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