worse
He is there, still, amid the elaborate stitching, within the cold wooden cocoon. Black surrounds him, sorrow chokes the attendees and memories dart from one to the other like fish behind glass. It is like so many others, but different.
This is better than the last and the next. This was expected, prepared for and I can remain relatively unfazed. The last was sudden, untimely and shocking. The next will be equally foreseeable but I will not be distant. It will be worse.
The last was a boy, only a few years older than I at the time, a victim of a traffic accident. We knew each other as tertiaries. His humor and presence impressed me most. He was too young, too vibrant, too impressive.
I was there for others, not myself. I wanted to remember him as he was, laughing and sarcastic but it was not about me. They were closer to him and I did not feel I should let them go alone. That day was enjoyable, sad and great.
This is a man past what medics predicted. He remained, a different version of himself but there until only days ago. His passing was not shocking but equally sad. I did not know him, nor do I.
I am able to be the distraction, the support. Again, not for me, but for her. She is stronger than I but may need me so I am here. I am not caught up in it, not a part of the darting pasts. The next will be worse.
The memories will be mine. I will be there for me. I will be the one carved out and cavernous.
He is not famous, he is not rich and he is brilliant. He is a janitor, an eldest, a former hunter, a comedian. a mentor, a strong man, a teddy bear and a proud grandfather, like so many others, but different.
When it is time for the next, he will have passed. It will be worse.