"A Soft Goodbye"

Diannely Antigua


"I barely knew the woman," I complained.

"Do you think I care?" My mother's voice had a dull, sarcastic tone. "You're going anyway."

"And why?" I knew if I aggravated her enough, I'd get my way.

"Because I said so." She gave me that stern, stiff face she always did when she said that. Her eyes would bulge
and her eyelids would refuse to blink. I knew it wasn't worth it to continue to argue with her after that.
Not after "the face."

There was to be a funeral today. I was to go, my mother told me, to show respect. The woman had died of Parkinson's
disease on February 14 at the age of seventy-one. Her name was Himani, my uncle's mother, and a woman of deep-rooted
Indian tradition. I remember seeing her wear her brightly colored silk saris to the family parties, her small frame trembling
with every movement. Her red bindi was nothing but a blur as her small head shook.

Going to her funeral was the last thing I wanted to do. I hadn't been to a funeral since I was four, for my Aunt Mary,
and vivid images of that experience filled my mind.

***

I remembered mahogany wood, the lavender scent of the air, the coldness of the corpse, and the countless shoes from
my four-year-old perspective. Some were black and shiny like mine, some were square and pointy, some had laces; others
had buckles, high stilettos, or ballerina flats. I had walked into the house holding my mother's hand. I tried to wriggle my
chubby fingers from her claw like grasp. She held on though. Tight. Tighter than a boa constrictor around its prey. Once
inside, I was let free to wander in my white tights. Every room I came to was poorly lit and I was met with the same
response-lips moving but no sound. I had galloped through the long hallway, hoping a new adventure would be waiting for
me at the next corner. On tiptoe, I prowled through the rooms. A woman in a long grey pantsuit with square-toed heels was
crying in an oversized chair; it was my aunt Julie. She was staring at a woman lying down in a dark wooden box. I hopped
over to the woman and shook my bunny tail. My brown curls bounced in every direction. I flapped my wings and skipped
into the outstretched arms of the grey-suited woman. She looked exhausted. Dark circles bordered her eyes. Black lines
streaked her thin face. Wisps of blonde hair escaped her tight bun.

She took my hand and brought me over to the woman lying down. Her face looked gaunt, her skin pasty white, her eyes gently
shut. Her dry fingers were entwined in a heart-shaped clasp. It was hard to tell who she was at first but her bulbous nose gave
it away. It was my aunt Mary.

Calling out her name, I waited for her eyes to open. I waited for her pale lips to part. I waited for her to say my name. Say my
name, I thought. Say my name. Telekinesis apparently didn't work like I thought it did.

I called again, but nothing. Her silence was numbing.

I looked back into my aunt's watery blue eyes. She wasn't telling me something. I knew that. She didn't answer me. I grew impatient.

Say my name. Say my name! Say anything, I begged again.

My aunt Julie shook her head at me. She didn't even look at me when she said it. She looked passed me, at my aunt Mary.

"She's dead," she breathed in my ear.

My aunt Julie let go of my hand and walked over to the casket. She gently stroked my Aunt Mary's frozen hand and gave her a peck
on the forehead.

"Say goodbye to Aunt Mary. Give her a kiss and say goodbye."

Her request left me frozen in my spot. My white stocking feet were cemented to the carpet. I stared at her chalky skin from where I
was standing. The wrinkles that used to encircle her eyes when she smiled were now deep carved cracks. Her yellow blonde hair
was too bright against her pale cheeks. I inched closer to her. One step. Two steps. Now another step. I raised my hand to place it
just above hers. Millimeters away, I felt the cold. The air surrounding her seemed frozen. It stabbed my fingertips and traveled up
my arm, to my neck, to my face; I felt it on my lips. I pulled my hand away before I could get it any closer, stepped back, and let out
a shrill, deafening cry. Pushing past my Aunt Julie, I ran down the dark hallway, my long brown curls following behind me. I never
said goodbye.

***

At that young age, I was traumatized by death and the memories it ripped from my life. The memories of my Aunt Mary were obliterated
by the shock of seeing her stiff in a casket. The only good memory I have with her is of me sitting at the foot of her rocking chair. She would
read me a story about unicorns and enchanted forests as I dressed and undressed a Cabbage Patch Doll. She looked like a Cabbage Patch
Doll to me, chubby and smiling. Her apple rose cheeks would light up when I'd smile. She'd smile back and I'd see the little wrinkles by her
glistening hazel eyes. She was someone I could laugh with, someone I could spend endless hours with. She was my best friend. Those memories
were shattered with the gaunt corpse in the casket, the frigid air attacking her very soul. I didn't want to strip the memories that I had of
someone else by seeing them in a casket. I would rather not remember people when they were dead, but when they were alive-living, breathing,
and warm. The little memories that I had of Himani were too precious and rare to have them erased from my memory with just one look into
her casket.

My mother had laid her clothes for the funeral on her bed: a long black skirt with a slit up to the mid-calf and a long-sleeved navy blue,
almost black, blouse.

"I wear this outfit to every funeral that I go to," my mother began. "My co-worker's husband died of lung cancer just last year and I wore
it to his funeral. Nine months later, another co-worker lost her husband to cancer. Pancreatic, I think. Just last month, another one of my
co-workers-can you believe it?-lost her mother to cancer too. That cancer, I swear it's an epidemic. And now today, I am wearing it to
Himani's funeral."

"Why don't you ever wear something different?" I asked.

"Well, I don't know really. I wear the outfit to different funerals so it's not like I'm 'repeating an outfit.' God knows you wouldn't be caught
dead doing that. It's that I've never liked funerals myself-too gloomy if you ask me-and I've never liked wearing the clothes that I would
wear to a funeral somewhere else. They carried the memories of the dead with them. Left me with emptiness. I used to throw away any
clothes I'd wear to a funeral. Now I have specific funeral clothes. I just take them off, put them away in the closet, and pull them out when
the next person dies."

It sounded cynical but I knew what she meant. I never wore that black and white checkered dress ever again since that day. They smelled
too much like lavender, even after my mother washed it. I even refused to wear the shoes. I finally just grew out of the clothes and my
mother donated them to the Salvation Army.

"The only funeral that I didn't wear these clothes was to my father's funeral. I didn't even go to his funeral. I couldn't. He died in the
Dominican Republic and the airfare was just too expensive. I had already taken a trip to see him just two weeks before he had died." My
mother wiped a tear away from her cheek. I remembered my grandfather and the day that he died. I knew the story, but I let her finish.
"It was his birthday the last time I saw him. He was sitting in his backyard under the shade of a mango tree. His swollen feet propped up on
a lawn chair. I sang Happy Birthday to him. When I left, he was standing on his porch, waving and blowing me kisses. That's how I wanted
to remember him, waving and blowing me kisses." My mother dried her tears on her t-shirt. I knew how difficult it was for her to tell me
that story again. She had told me the story before in bits and pieces, but I never had taken the time to listen.

***

I walked into the funeral parlor. The lights were dim and I could barely see where I was going. "I will not look for the casket, I will not look
for the casket," I repeated to myself under my breath. My mother tugged me toward my uncle.

"This is my niece, Maria," said my uncle, as he introduced me to his sister, who was wearing a black and white sari, tied around her waist
and draped over her shoulder. I smiled without showing my teeth. I didn't know what to say to her or anybody for that matter.

"My condolences," I said, just as I had practiced. The words tasted strange in my mouth. She nodded mildly and I moved on. I took each
step cautiously; I didn't want to accidentally roam into the room with the casket. I walked down a dark hallway, passing portraits of unfamiliar
people on the walls. I heard talking coming from the end of the hallway. I moved toward the noise, slow steps at a time. When I finally reached
the room, I heard familiar voices and-was that laughing? I approached the room with less caution. I made quicker steps. I walked into the room
and was surprised to see so many people from my family there. I greeted everybody and sat down next to one of my cousins. I sat silently with
an expressionless face. I didn't know what I was supposed to do. Was I supposed to be sad; was it okay to smile? The talking and the laughter
bothered me. It was nothing like the dead silence of aunt Mary's funeral.

"So... how's school?" My cousin interrupted my thought.

"Oh it's good. Just busy, you know."

"Yeah."

She turned around and started talking to someone else. So much for catching up, I thought. I continued to sit there, in silence. I embraced it.
That was how funerals were supposed to be. Silent.

"I'm a donkey. HEE HAW. HEE HAW. HEE HAW." A little Indian girl, Mira, was kicking up her legs as she balanced her hands on the floor.
She was wearing a dark purple skirt, a black turtleneck, and on her forehead was a small diamond shaped bindi. "HEE HAW. HEE HAW."
So much for silence.

I studied the little girl, wondering if she knew where she was, if she knew that her grandmother had just died, if she had seen the dead body.
Don't find the casket, I told her in my mind. Don't find the casket. I was wishing that telekinesis really worked. She kicked up her legs again and
hee-hawed like a donkey-I saw myself pretending to be a bunny and shaking my imaginary bushy tail. Mira sat on my cousin's lap-I saw myself
flapping my arms like wings and leaping into my Aunt Julie's arms. That used to be me.

Mira's mother finally came to help her into her coat. They were leaving. My mother followed right behind her.

"It's time to go," she said to me. Her eyes were tear swollen and her mascara had been running. She pulled out a tissue from her pocket and
wiped her face. I put on my coat and said goodbye to my cousins. We walked down the long hallway together. Mira chuckled at the portraits
of the old men and women on the walls. We reached the end of the hallway and headed toward the door. Mira turned right and walked into
a silent, dim room. This was the room with the casket. I knew it. I could feel the cold already overtaking me as I entered. On the left of the
room was the casket. There was Himani, dressed in a black silk sari, and on her forehead was a red bindi. Her small frame was neatly placed
inside. Her skin was pale and not at all golden brown as I remembered it. She was no longer trembling as I remembered, either. She was quiet
and still. Mira walked over to the casket without hesitation, placed her small hand over her grandmother's hand, and kissed her gently on the
forehead. I waited for her to give a shrill piercing cry, but she didn't. Mira wasn't afraid of death. She was nothing like me at all.

I headed toward the front door, but something kept my feet cemented in place. From the past, I heard a familiar voice: "Say goodbye to Aunt
Mary. Give her a kiss and say goodbye."

One step. Two steps. Now another step. I was right in front of her casket. I took my hand out of my coat pocket, spread my fingers apart, and
reached for her hand. I felt the cold again. It started to pierce my skin. I tightened my mouth and held my lips together.

"Give her a kiss and say goodbye." The voice came to me again.

I tried again. I inched my hand closer to hers. One inch. Then another inch. I was so close. The last inch. My hand rested over hers. I held her hand.
Tight. Tighter than a boa constrictor around its prey. She was my support right now. I needed to hold on to her. I didn't want to let go. I bent my
head down and kissed her on the forehead. Her skin was cold, just as it was supposed to be. A tear trickled down my face. Then more. I loosened
my hold on her hand and stroked her fingers. My tears landed on her dry hands, and all over my own. I kissed her on the forehead again, right on
her red bindi.

"Goodbye, Aunt Mary."


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