The Funeral
The Funeral
The church smelled like lilies and old wood polish. Jack Everett sat in the front pew, back stiff, trying not to look at the casket.
It didn’t help that his mom was quietly breaking beside him. Her hand clutched his so hard her nails dug in. His little sister, Leigh, leaned into her shoulder, face blotchy from crying.
Jack forced his eyes up at the stained-glass window instead. Sunlight bled through reds and blues, painting the floor in fractured light.
His dad used to say that, “Funerals are morbid. They should be celebrations of life,” he’d say, but Jack disagreed and felt painful emptiness. Celebrating would be ridiculous.
As the pastor prayed, he tried to find comfort in God. He was pretty sure that God existed, so maybe his dad was in Heaven? Or some other kind of ethereal dimension?
The pastor’s voice blurred in the background. Jack stared harder at the photos propped on easels near the podium. His family looked frozen in smiles. Disneyland trips, birthday cakes, baby pictures. All the times he thought he’d have.
When he finally looked at the casket, a jolt went through his body, like a statick shock. He blinked hard.
He didn’t notice Emma from school until she slid into the pew behind him. Her familiar vanilla perfume brushed his senses as she leaned forward and whispered, “I’m here if you need anything.”
Jack tried to smile at her and say thank you, but his throat locked up so he glanced away.
When the pastor called his name, he walked to the podium, his hands shaky as he held his notes.
His voice sounded hollow in the microphone. He talked about how his dad once carried him on his shoulders down Main Street, how he never missed a Friday-night skate at the rink, and a stop for Sundaes afterwards.
He made it through without breaking down. His mom hugged him, whispering, “Your dad would love this so much. It was just right.”
