On 'Just Gone.'

This is such a difficult grab into my heart... You're a part of my memory.
-Bushwalla, "1982 Blues"

You're gone, just a memory now. I think of the people I've known and loved who have made their exits from my life and I want them back. I can't burn bridges- I want to love a person wholly while I can, not a needless memory.





I. Aftermath

He hadn't been himself for the past few months. Sick already, the struggle handed to him proved too much. He simply lost the fight. I catch myself imagining over and over the scene that must have played out that night. The worst part is when it's over and there is no rewind.

I've been in town less than an hour and the gossip is already more than I can bear. Why isn't the rest of the world shattering with me? A dark cloud hangs over us yet the highway moves at the same pace and business is being done as usual. I watch a man saunter across Don's parking lot and climb into his truck. He chews on a toothpick, content from lunch.
I think, 'This could be you, but it's not. You're not experiencing anything… You’re gone.'
I'm frightened by how easily it could be me missing from this busy world. Instead it's the man that baptized me, watched me "blossom" into who I am today.


II. Funeral Home

I step inside a room full of people laughing and joking, with two lines snaking together towards the casket. I follow my group towards the register, sign my name, and glance at the wall. Framed are the words 'In loving memory of Kenny Ray Smith, 1963-2009'.
I begin to shake and cry instantly. I clutch my purse, gather my resolve, and join the line leading to a grieving Louann and cold, ashen Kenny. My tears seem out-of-place, so I bury my face into Brian's shoulder until I've stopped crying. I avoid looking at the casket for as long as possible, till I’m at the end and I’m forced to see the strange look on his face. He doesn’t look at all like the person I knew. Seeing our pictures beside him clouds my vision with tears and I have to leave.
Several people fill my ears with their negative speculation on my way out and I wonder, 'Why can't we just let each other grieve?'


III. The Funeral Service

Traveling down one country road after another, I pass the cemetery where he's to be buried. Several men are there with a tractor digging a grave. I pretend not to notice. At 11:06 I’m sitting in my car gathering courage. I can hear the sound of Aaron Neville’s music coming from inside the church. I have to brace myself to keep from crying. That was our song for years. Several men that Kenny knew and loved spoke about how strongly he stood beside the people everyone else hated. That was him exactly- strong, loving, honest. His hands were always warm, his words exactly what you needed to hear.
When it’s time to walk past him my body starts shaking so much that I’m afraid to stand. He seems gray and fake and not at all like the charismatic person that would call out “Hey Girl” and kiss my cheek. I leave the church asking the same question Tuesday night’s phone call left me obsessed over. ‘Why?’