US

There are times like these that make you appreciate the people around you, even if it's in an awkward place like a funeral.

Knowing that anyone here could be next-the old white pastor preaching his heart out on the stage, the mother in front of me, bawling her eyes out while wearing the most obvious wig you could find in Los Angeles.

Or maybe the child in her arms will suddenly fall ill, struck by some cruel fate we barely even notice these days.

There's so much opportunity for tragedy here, for loss. Expected or unexpected. Surely no one saw the woman in the casket dying from an overdose, not this soon, not this way.

And yet, surrounded by grief and distraction, the church itself feels like a distraction. Polished brown chairs, blinding lights that make it feel like the gods are about to descend, and the exotic ceiling, truly beautiful, if only slightly absurd.

"She's not dead," a woman says from the microphone, tears streaming down her face. "She may be gone, but she'll never truly be gone. God's children are immortal. My sister is immortal.

I'll keep her name alive. Her beliefs alive. I'll make her as alive as anyone in this room."

Yes, because you were totally her biggest fan before her death. And the jewelry you're wearing-her jewelry you always begged her for-really sells the performance. "She would've wanted this," indeed.

The pastor finally takes the microphone back, sparing us from more dramatic sobbing.

"Is there any chance we could hear from the husband?" he asks. "I know this is heartbreaking, Mr. Adams, and we completely understand if you'd prefer not to."

No escape. Standing here silently would make me look like a bad husband, so I rise. Every eye on me as I slowly make my way to the stage. Half the people I don't know, never cared to know, and probably don't even know she was married.

My own family? Complicated.

The pastor hands me the microphone, pats me on the back, no words exchanged. I look down at her family. Unpleasant, because I know half of them don't like me. Worse, I'm the reason she's gone.

"Um..." I start, gripping the microphone, avoiding all eye contact. Ultimately, I give up and stare at the top of the microphone.

"I... agree with what Chrissy said."

Not really. I never cared for symbolic immortality. Why would I? I'm dead.

"She's not gone," I continue, the words pouring out before I can stop them. "She's still here, more than you may think. It's our job to keep her name, her beliefs, alive. We all loved her. We all miss her. Remember why you miss her-the smile, the oddly perfect messy hair, her calm in chaos. Her flaws were part of her perfection."

I lose myself, accidentally remembering why I loved her in the first place. I refuse to look at the crowd, but I know they see me as weak, vulnerable. That's the point-but not like this. Not like this.

I bite my tongue, stare at the microphone, watch tears fall. I haven't felt this way about her since she lost her charm. What's any different now?

The pastor brings a box of tissues. My vision blurs, and it takes me eight awkward tries to grab it. I wipe my face and finally look at the crowd.

Colors, shapes, not faces. But there, standing in the aisle, a woman out of place. White, messy blond hair, mid-twenties maybe, all black. Familiar.I blink. Wipe my eyes.

She's still there. It's her. Christina. My wife.