a bad month for mortals.

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I was sorry. For nothing, and at the same time, everything. Having told someone, I was then gripped by an inhuman desire to tell everyone. I distinctly remember the sensation of falling, reeling... Suddenly the voices of others became vines to reach for, to cling to. And that day, I discovered that all the friends who I haven't been there for were still there for me. As it turned out, it wasn't a good time for anyone. Derek told me only that day that his grandfather had a stroke and has been in the hospital for a month now. Jen, who actually apologized for not calling me, said her boyfriend's grandfather died just last Thursday. Not only that, but a mutual friend of ours lost a grandmother that very same day. Death even hovered over Greg, who told me his parents unexpectedly took off for the Phillipines last week to tend their parents' graves after they both dreamed of their mothers in the same night. In three hours, over a single phone, an entire world I thought I'd lost suddenly materialzed again. Or at least it reminded me that it was always there. I deeply felt that I wasn't alone -- and in more ways than one. Only then, perhaps, I allowed myself to be weak. Desperate. Furious. Cranky. Scared. Sad. All of these words I remember rolling around in my head, trying to find the square-pegged word to describe my state of mind. But my brain was nothing but round holes that day. Nothing fit. I skipped my classes and went to work to close up the heap of papers that I never fail to leave for myself at the end of each month. Though it was the middle of the day, there were a lot of semi-familiar faces, people I probably worked with at one time or another. So as I stacked and stapled and shoved, I made small talk and laughed at jokes. I didn't feel like me, though. It felt like I was my own shadow, watching and parodying myself as I went through the motions. And every so often, something seized me and forced me to introduce my uncle's death into even the most mundane of conversations. I was also a total hypocrite that day. If someone was heavily sympathetic and seemed to take the news seriously, I would wave my hand and shrug and smile. So many times I heard myself say aloud, "I didn't know him that well." But the minute someone would say, "At least you didn't know him that well," my blood boiled. Even though they were my words, coming out of someone else's mouths they were an insult. I would suddenly get the urge to grab them by the throat and scream, "But he was my uncle!" I let myself cry several times that day. Always quietly, almost invisibly... a few seconds in the bathroom, in the car, in shady corners, while changing my shoes... I didn't know why. But it felt good. The funeral was just one long blur. A dizzying haze of black, organ music, mountains of flowers, long hugs and a hundred deep bows to a hundred people I'd never seen before... and will probably never see again. I only have fragments of memories of that night. I remember everyone marveling about how strong my cousins were -- the youngest just turned 18 last month -- and yet knowing inside that we all knew they weren't. They were, I thought, where I was two days prior: cowering, nervously waiting for the something that was coming to hit. And I knew it would hit them hard. I remember actually expecting to look around and see my uncle slowly weaving through the crowd with his video camera -- his favorite toy, it seemed, since time began. ("It isn't like Uncle Willy," I almost thought, "to miss a huge family thing like this.") I remember trying to avoid calling him "Uncle Willy," even though he'd been that to everyone since the first kid in the family was able to talk. As I drifted from conversation to conversation, it was... discomforting to hear how everyone seemed to be struggling to call him William. (William. It feels so foreign on my tongue.) And I remember seeing my aunt, gently smiling. Even at her husband's funeral, she was trying to be a good host, making sure we all had something to eat. She was the only one that night to see me cry. I went around to hunt for the bathroom, and I saw her there. I gave her a hug, and my tongue suddenly felt like a fat slab of meat as I tried to use it to tell her I was sorry. But she smiled, again, and said that they had very happy times this year. The week before he died they vacationed in Las Vegas, and I remembered how she'd bragged to make my mom jealous. She said her only worry now was paying for everything. "$10,000 and rising," she said. "I never thought that being dead for four days would cost more than it does to be alive for the same amount of time." Another smile, and I couldn't take it. Eventually, we walked back into the church and I sat down in back. I studied the silver coffin from a distance, having refused all night to get any closer. I watched as relatives filed past, some actually reaching in to touch him, and though I hated myself for it, my skin crawled at the thought. I do remember overhearing that he was in there in a grey suit, and how he'd never wear a suit. Someone else commented about the make-up. My aunt returned to bring me some juice, but soon disappeared again into the crowd. The whole scene was surreal. Disturbing. Clearing my mind, perhaps for the first time in days, I paid my respects with a bow at the door and walked out into a light rain.