by Emma Williquette
EXHIBIT A: GREAT-GRANDMA ON DAD’S MOM’S SIDE.
Indianapolis, Indiana. Sometime in 2007.
I only remember the day in photographic bursts now at twenty-one. Mom was putting my hair half-up in a little ribbon as she always did. After that, I was in someone’s arms going somewhere. Suddenly I had shoes on. Wanted them off. Couldn’t take them off. Lastly, the backseat of the car, left side, on a purple floral booster seat.
For a three year old, I was wordy. I could spout off fun facts about animals at the drop of a hat. Other than that, words were a matter of sounding it out. As I sat in the backseat of the car, I rolled the word around in my mind: funeral. Fun, there’s one word. Maybe everybody was mispronouncing that part. Fun-a-roll. That translated to my toddler brain as a fun bread party.
We stopped at a light next to a Wendy’s. I knew that was a restaurant, restaurants have food, therefore having bread, probably.
“We gonna get rolls?” I piped up from the backseat, keeping my eyes on the driver’s seat in front of me.
“For what?” My mom felt my wrong time, wrong place question coming up.
“The– with great grandma. Rolls. For the fun.” Nobody answered me until we reached the funeral home parking lot.
It thundered, raindrops hitting the windows as we pulled in. I liked to trace them with my eyes. I hated the sound of thunder. My grandpa would always try to make it a bit nicer.
“The angels are bowling,” he’d say.
I’ve never enjoyed bowling.
It was open casket. I walked over and looked at her. I got bored and walked back to my seat. I was itchy and still wanted to take my shoes off. I knew this was not a shoeless occasion. That is where my memories of the funeral end. Maybe I fell asleep on the drive to the burial.
EXHIBIT B: COUSIN ON MOM’S SIDE.
Green Bay, Wisconsin. Late April, 2009.
This is the first funeral I really remember. Nobody on Dad’s side freaked out this hard when great-grandma went. People care a lot more if somebody dies tragically at eighteen than if they do of old age.
There was a DVD of The Lion King somewhere on the way there, my baby blanket bunched up in one arm as I drifted into a nap. When I woke up, we were in Middle-of-Nowhere, Wisconsin, the flattest place you could ever land your eyes on. The sky swirled an eerie shade of purple. My fun fact of the week was that if lightning struck a car that you were in, you would be fine. I still haven’t found out whether or not this is true.
I remember the stagnant air when we got to Mom’s parents’ house. A Spongebob rerun was playing on the old TV in the living room. I got to sit in the recliner all by myself for once. I felt like the queen of Wisconsin. I am not sure why this is a title anybody would want to have, but I felt enough like royalty in my chair. I ran my fingers along the corduroy lines of the arm, counting how many squares of plaid were on the blanket near my hand. Thirty-four, I counted, just before I was removed from my position of power.
They played country music. There was a truck there, I think, in the funeral home. I’m not sure why that was allowed. Maybe tragic deaths get exceptions to the rules. That made enough sense to me. I managed to sneak off from my mom’s side to explore. Not too many minutes later, I found a crock pot within my reach. It was filled with chicken nuggets, my cousin’s favorite, and I didn’t want him to feel left out. One plate for me, one plate for him.
We sat on the ground. I couldn’t see him but I loved to play pretend.
“Wish it was cooler. They need bubbles,” I took a bite out of a chicken nugget. I’ve only ever had two or three memories with him, one of which was blowing bubbles in the front yard. He’s always been more of an imaginary friend than a dead cousin.
The chicken nuggets sat, growing colder every passing second. Here, I have a vague memory of my aunt in a burning fury about the wasted food. She was on edge. Her son died, of course she was. I remember Mom trying to reason with her, defending my imagination–she’s barely five–to no avail. I had to sit in the corner of one of the rows with Mom at the funeral.
Again, the burial is wiped from my memory. I remember a visit or two at his grave, specifically at thirteen, but nothing beyond that. I’ve noticed that, at funerals, the most memorable thing doesn’t tend to be who goes in the ground.
EXHIBIT C: ELDERLY NEIGHBOR.
Nashville, Tennessee. Sometime in 2011.
This is a technicality. It was a visitation, not a funeral. I still don’t know the difference. This one burned enough of a hole in my mind that I don’t think I want to attend any more of either.
I had this neighbor up the hill from me as a child. I remember meeting her, the layout of her house, how it smelled, and what fake fruit would be on the table given the month. Martha had a husband. He died in the sun room. She got a few more years than him. I knew about the sun room death and felt distraught knowing Martha got a hospital room death. Mom still hesitates when I ask her what exactly Martha had. I feel it would be a disservice to Martha if I stopped asking.
The summer passed into winter, damp and grey over the city. I brought her a card, bunny-themed, hand-drawn. I’d remembered my grandpa saying something about God and Heaven once.
“Are you scared? Of what’s up there?” I barely looked at her.
“Oh, no, not Him. I’m gonna solve the mystery of what’s behind the sky,” she nodded.
She looked peaceful enough at the visitation that I believed her, even then. Mom said that I stared at her for longer than was comfortable for everybody. I talked even if Martha wasn’t going to talk back. The last thing I told her about was the headband I was wearing.
I held my mom’s hand as we walked back to the car, only to stop and point up. A star overhead.
“That’s Martha. She’s solved it,” I told my mom.
I haven’t been to a funeral since. Whether anybody I am related to or knew once has died is beyond my knowledge. I don’t think I’ll be going to more funerals, anyway. They just seem to leave more mystery than it’s worth.
© Emma Williquette
Emma Williquette (she/they) writes from the snapshots of life, past and present, circulating in her head. She currently resides in Oregon with her cat Lucio and her collection of sentimental objects. You can find her work in Constellations, The Creekside Magazine, the cadence review, Iceblink Literary Magazine, and more.
You can find out more on Instagram @ewilliquette, ChillSubs, and SubStack.
Share the love and wonder by making sure to respect the copyrights! Everything we publish belongs to the authors. You can share their texts via the official link. If you quote them, please credit them. Supporting creativity starts with respecting those who create, so we thank you in advance for doing your part!