The irony of having funerals
in churches with immense chapels
is that they can hold a congregation,
and the viewing line looks half a
mile or longer, perhaps to eternity.
The closer my family gets to the
polished box, surrounded with
flora and photos and an American
flag, the harder my stomach knots.
I can’t quite remember the last
time I saw your face—not including
the card I’m crushing in my hand,
and that terribly beautiful video—
and you’ll know, they’ll all know,
that I’ve forgotten its features,
the gentle curve of your jaw,
the purple puff under your eyes,
the tiny scar above your left eyebrow,
even the dusty freckles on your cheeks.
My fraudulent tears could be spotted
from space and everyone will know.

But I have this memory, it’s been
haunting me—no, you’ve been
haunting me, following me.
I was just a kid, maybe seven, so
you would have been fourteen,
and I was playing in those Fisher Price
skates that strap over your sneakers,
and we were in the church
parking lot, trying to skate faster;
I was always wanting to move
faster, faster, faster back then.
You had a new bike, and a soft
spot for the younger children,
so we found a long tree branch,
and you towed me around like
some sort of first-grade caboose,
until I lost my grip and flew
careening onto the pavement,
scraping my knee open—
a gaping mess of blood and flesh.
As we snuck in the back door of
the church, and dug through
the outdated first aid kit,
you begged me not
to tell our mothers what had
happened, and I was just trying
not to bleed on my favorite shoes,
so when, after cleaning me up, you
gave me his favorite model, a Captain
America action figure, I couldn’t
help but smile through my snotty
tears. “Don’t worry,” you said,
“You probably won’t have a scar,
and now you have an awesome toy!”

I’m turning this scene over and over
as we come up to the casket—
you had friends your own age, but
you always seemed to make time
for me and my siblings, the runts—
until, for the last time, I see your face.
It is serene and sallow, too quiet, too still;
your eyes have been closed, chin tucked
against your uniform, and I notice
the insignia on your cold shoulder—
Sergeant First Class, US Army—
and for some reason, that brings
forth a flood of tears so vicious
and relentless, I can’t control myself,
so I just stand in front of your corpse,
heaving, wracked with violent sobs.

After a few minutes
of this humiliating display,
somebody tries to push me along,
so I put on my best crazy lady face
and hiss like a cornered cat,
planted firmly, a weeping statue.
The hand is removed,
and I cry until I am
dry heaving, the chapel spinning.
I place a hand on the coffin,
hoping you don’t mind that I’m
causing such a scene,
reach into my pocket and search
until I find the figurine, placing
the old Captain America toy in
the crook of your elbow.