Fighting every step my feet take past the heavy, wooden doors,
my own sharp, shallow breaths the only sound,
interrupted by the scrawl of my name on the gilded book.
Tunnel vision,
it's a real thing after all.
I can't even tell if there's anyone else here,
I can only see the blurry faces of the dejected couple
who grow closer
as I will my legs to keep moving,
moving closer.
I'm not sure if I want to see.
I heard it was horrific,
how are they going to cover that up?
I pause by the couple.
I'm morbidly curious about the way they look,
exhausted,
faces blotched with the discoloration of relentless sadness.
I peel my gaze away at the sound of a familiar tune.
From the soft, dusty speakers in the corner plays a song
one I'd tried to forget for the past few days.
As the strumming of a ukulele layers over the breathy voice,
I close my eyes and allow,
briefly,
the image to appear fully.
There he was,
colorful,
grinning,
seeming to bring a light to the dimly lit wings of the stage,
plucking at the little instrument,
and crooning away.
Around him, gathered, would be his delighted peers,
their usual, foul teenage spirits lifted by his magnetic presence.
Opening my eyes, the colors fade away to the dull browns of the pews and the oak box before me.
With a shuddering breath,
I advance.
Despite the numerous times I've done this in the past,
it never disturbs me any less.
And this time,
I'm extremely aware that just moments ago,
we were children together.
It's wrong, the image of him emerging over the edge of the box
as I come nearer.
It's wrong,
seeing the most active boy I've ever met,
lying so still.
It's wrong,
seeing a somber expression on his face,
already crinkled with laugh lines.
It's wrong,
whispering my goodbyes,
when I've always shouted to him,
from the stage,
from the audience,
across the courtyard,
cheering,
laughing,
singing with him.
It's wrong,
to see him in his stone grey suit,
his ashen knuckles clasped around
black and white rosaries.