Tearless

We're all wearing black, of course.

It's not like you would have settled for anything less, would you? Muffled coughs echo around the church- there always seems to be someone with a cough at these things, though I admit I haven't been to a lot of funerals.

Music starts. I exhale once, a sharp motion that pushes the air out of my lungs and vapour spills from between my lips instead, even though we’re indoors. The heels of my boots keep clicking loudly against the stone floor and the tag on the back of my dress itches. I've worn this dress to a funeral before- I wouldn't want you to think I'd go out and buy a new dress especially for you. After a lifetime (or my life up until now, anyway) of complaining about how I "could be so pretty if you tried!" and pursing your lips in clear disapproval of my tomboy proclivities, you should be grateful I wore a dress at all.

Grateful. That was always such a big theme for you, wasn't it? Or, more specifically, you never got the gratitude you were so sure you deserved.

The vicar speaks about a woman, but she's no one I know. He speaks about life, of warmth, of humour, of all those trite, sentimental things you're supposed to say about the dearly departed. People are murmuring to each other, some sniffling, voices like leaves rustling in the wind. I'm surprised by the amount of people here- who knew you had so many friends? They look like they belong here, dressed in drab, old clothing to protect their frail bodies against the icy air. Their tears glitter in the wrinkles on their faces, tissues and handkerchiefs fluttering on their sallow cheeks like flags. They should be the ones sitting in the front row, not us, not the family that sits silently, immobile and remote as statues.

I look at your children, grandmother, and I wonder what they're thinking about. Are they here in this freezing cold church, listening to the droning from a man who didn't really know you, or are they like me, dredging through memories? It seems likely it's the latter- anything seems preferable to listening to this.

I wonder, then, what memories are standing out in their minds. I doubt they are happy ones, although there must have been some.

My mother sits next to me, her eyes glassy, her eyeshadow slightly smudged. I wonder if she's remembering how you told her it was her fault when her father had a heart attack, or one of the many other times she had to bear the blame for something uncontrollable.

My uncle has his hands in his pockets and keeps darting glances at the door, like he wants to get up and make a run for it. I wonder if he feels relieved that you never knew he was gay, or upset that he knows his own mother would have never accepted him for who he really is.

My aunt's expression is carefully blank, staring at nothing, but I can see the way she's gritting her jaw. I wonder if she blames you for her mistrust of other women, the paranoia that they’re always ready to stab her in the back- if it all started with the first woman she ever knew.

My siblings and cousins just look uncomfortable in their clothes, obviously not used to the stiff fabric. Like me, there is a sense of detachment, a lack of feeling that some might consider disturbing. I wonder if they, too, remember an instinctive feeling from a young age that their supposed beloved relative had no affectionate feelings towards them. That unmistakable feeling of being silently reproached, even before doing anything to warrant it. They, like me, are all too aware of how strange this all is, like we’re watching a play. It’s hard to say if it’s a tragedy or a farce.

Me, I sit there and I seethe.

Because this woman being described is not you. She isn't the woman who would offer us chocolate and snatch it away before we'd even taken a bite. She isn't the woman who could sour the atmosphere simply by sitting there, disapproval and indignation as palpable as a thunderstorm. The woman I couldn't bear to be left alone in a room with, because I knew that's when she'd go in for the kill. Do your grieving friends know that you'd have found their tears 'disgraceful'? Do they know how you used to tell your own grandchildren, "Children should be seen and not heard," and then complain that we never wanted to talk to you? Or do they just know this woman that I have never known? The fact you were always capable of kindness but chose never to bother with it when dealing with us is perhaps your way of having a last laugh, for us to hear that you were capable of being pleasant after a lifetime of resenting you.

The music has stopped. The ceremony continues, and I sit with my family, watching the whole event as if it has nothing to do with me, without feeling any sense of loss or confusion. The only thing I do feel is a vague sense that the fact that I don't miss you at all is almost sadder than if I was grieving for a loving grandmother. But you weren't. You would stab us with your own brand of venom, either delivered between pursed lips, puckered like you recently sucked on a lemon, or with a sing-song tone like a school teacher. Either way, the effect was the same- we would retreat into our resentment, our anger, tallying up each slight amongst ourselves as we sucked the poison from our wounds. It became something like a joke, “What’s she said to you this time?”

How does one mourn such a toxic creature?

When we stand to leave, still wrapped up in our dour, plain clothing, I exit the church and gaze at the dimming skies. Ice covers the ground, as cold and unfeeling as I am. I walk towards the car, silent and indifferent.

Tearless.