to wake me here on the couch,
where Gram and I talked long into
the night with Aunt Andrea.
Planning for after. Yes, there will
be an after. Calls to make:
the funeral home
relatives
friends
acquaintances
Beyond that, there is Dad’s request
that Shelby’s room be emptied,
boxed
scrubbed
painted
carpet replaced
All these things whirl around in
my head. And then I hear,
no
no
sobbing
weeping.
In the Recliner
Aunt Andrea stirs from her dreams.
Gram comes from the kitchen.
None of us hurries. We know there
is no reason, and Mom and Dad
deserve a few private minutes
of mourning. I don’t have to look
through her door to know Shelby
is gone. It’s like her energy was sucked
from her room, leaving us all in
a vacuum. Conflicting emotions
tug-of-war inside my head, my heart.
Shock. Certainty.
Grief. Relief.
Joy at her escape to freedom. Anger at what might have been.
Gram Goes to Make the First Call
This early on a holiday morning,
an answering service person is
the first one to hear that Shelby
has died. The funeral parlor
director is doing his Labor Day
thing. It will take a while for
someone to come collect my
sister’s shell. Meanwhile, Mom
refuses to let go of her hand.
Why is she getting so cool?
I don’t want her to be cold.
I have to keep her warm.
I want to help Mom, but have no
idea how. I want to put my arm
around Dad, cry into his shoulder.
But we haven’t shared that kind
of intimacy since I was a little boy.
And anyway, he’s propping up Mom.
Death Is Awkward
Despite all the talking, all the planning,
no one really knows what to do. I glance
around the room at all the specialized
equipment we won’t need anymore.
For years, it’s been the heartbeat
of this house. It has been silenced.
The hush is stunning. Finally, Gram
asks, Did you note the time of death?
We were instructed to write it down
for the death certificate. Mom shakes
her head, but Dad says, Six thirty-eight
a.m. None of us asks if he’s sure. What
does it really matter, anyway? I want
to call Alex, but it’s so very early.
I can’t do anything more in here, though,
so I go into the living room. Outside
the sliding glass doors, storm clouds
simmer up, black over the hills. Fitting.
It Is Ten A.M.
Before they arrive with a gurney.
Shelb’s last trip in a stander of sorts.
I smile,
thinking about the times
Alex and I pushed her back
and forth between us.
I cry,
remembering the cruel words
“retard” and “alien.”
I wonder
for not exactly the first time
how much Shelby was aware
of everything around her.
I wish
she could have told us,
helped us understand. If
I knew
for sure, I would sleep
better tonight.
Alex Shows Up
Just as they wheel Shelby out
of the house. I didn’t even call
him. It’s like he just knew. Mom
is still holding on to Shelby’s
hand. Please don’t let her be cold.
Please? Promise me. Dad has to
pull her away. Let them go now,
Missy. They’ll take good care of her.
I can’t stomach the thought
of what will come next for Shelby.
Thank God Alex is here. Dad leads
Mom past me and off toward
their bedroom. I hope she sleeps.
She needs to fall down into some dark
quiet place. Somewhere warm. Alex
waits for the corpse carriers to load
Shelbs into a plain white unmarked
van. Guess they save the hearse
for the actual funeral. As they drive
away it hits me. I didn’t say goodbye.
It Isn’t Until
Alex and I go inside and pass
the bedroom emptied of her,
body and spirit, that it really
sinks in that she will not ever
be coming home. She is dead.
And all that talk about dignified
death was total bullshit. I didn’t
want her to die. Period. What
I really wanted was for her to live
whole. Well. Capable. Happy.
But that was not in my power,
nor in the power of any human—
no doctor. No surgeon. No researcher.
All we could do was try to make her
comfortable. To allow her a few
joyful hours beyond the many
she spent lying in bed. Mom tried
to give me a reason why a true
omnipotent God would create
something so broken, and send
her to us for such a short season.
But I really don’t understand it.
If there is a God and He did this,
I don’t think I like him very much.
Hey, God. Are you listening?
The door to my room is open.
But Gaga is in her usual spot
on my pillow. Did she not know
she could venture out into the hall—
into the larger world? Or was
she afraid to? Shelby never had
the chance to venture out into
the larger world, at least not on
her own. Did she miss being able
to? Would she have been afraid to?
Suddenly, it strikes me that I don’t
know how she felt about stuff.
I could tell when she was happy.
But was she ever sad? Scared?
Did she even know I loved her?
My Eyes Sting
No, goddamn it, I can’t. Men don’t cry,
not even gay men. Right? Alex, who has
totally let me get mired in my musings,
notices my gay slipping out. He opens
his arms, entices me into them. Go
ahead and cry. I’m so sorry, Shane.
I want to shout, “What the fuck for?
It’s not like you did anything.” But my tears
won’t let me. I’m sad. Pressed down
by sorrow. I’m angry. Pissed at God,
if there is one, and the way things are.
I’m scared. Confused by the whys.
Why are we here? Is there, really, some
intelligent design? Why do we cry for
someone who leaves us if there’s some
Grand Pearly Gate in the sky? Why worry
about how we build our lives if the ultimate
ending for all is death, a single breath away?
Alex
Death
Of course I think about it.
But death as a worry is not
exclusive to people with HIV.
Who
but a total innocent
hasn’t considered their final
breath? And who really
knows
what that means? Philosophers
muse on it, but find no answers.
Ministers preach propaganda—
what
a person must do on earth
to reach some mythical heaven.
Seems to me religion’s true motivation
lies
within the offering plate.
I wish I had answers, wish
I could offer Shane solace
beyond
the comfort of my arms.
But until we get there, we won’t know
for sure what’s on the other side.
Harley
I Wish
People would stop treating me
like a little kid. I’ll be fourteen
in a couple of weeks. I’m not a child.
Even my mother, who claims
to know me better than anyone
else in the universe, did not respect
me enough to tell me the reason
she was so distracted last weekend
was because my cousin was dying.
She never said a word until after
Shelby died, and when she finally told
me, I lost my temper. “I had the right
to know,” I pretty much yelled. “I had
the right to say goodbye. God, Mom.
I’m not a baby. I understand that
people die. Why do adults try to hide
the ugly stuff from their kids? People
die. People fall out of love and get
divorced. Or they fall out of love
and stay together when it’s obvious
they shouldn’t, like Bri’s mom and
dad. All they do is fight. It’s stupid.”
They had a whopper when Mrs. Carlisle
got back from Vegas. I didn’t give
details, but Mom acted all shocked
anyway. How do you know they fight?
She and Bri’s mom are tight. How could
she not know? “I’ve got ears, Mom,
and so does Bri. Her dad thinks her
mom is sleeping around. And guess
what else. He still doesn’t know
Mikayla is pregnant. Don’t you think
someone should tell him before
baggy shirts can’t hide it anymore?
Especially since she’s going to keep
the baby.” Mom just sat there, gawking.
Which Made Me Even Angrier
If Gram hadn’t called right then,
I might have said something really
mean. Like, is her head up her butt
or something? Of course, later
I felt bad about how mad I got.
Everyone in the family is kind of in
shock. I guess I knew Shelby
wasn’t going to live a long time.
But she was only four. Little kids
shouldn’t die! I wasn’t, like,
close to her, even though she was
my cousin. Even if she hadn’t been
sick, she was a lot younger
than me, so we wouldn’t have
hung out together. She was sick,
though. Visiting her was kind of
creepy, and the smell gagged me.
But now I feel sort of guilty that
we didn’t do it more. I bet
Mom feels the same way.
She’s sitting next to me, staring
at the coffin. Shelby is inside,
or something that looks sort of
like her. She’s so still and white
she could be made of wax.
Her hair is curled in ringlets,
and she’s smiling in her deep,
forever sleep. Did she die
smiling? Or did someone mold
her lips that way? Is she real?
People are still coming in as
the music starts to play. I wave
to Bri, who just got here with
her family. As usual, her dad
and mom are miles apart, even
though they sit side by side.
If Mom Can’t See That
She’s totally blind, and she’s def
checking them out. When she turns
back around, she looks sad. But
everyone looks pretty sad, especially
when the minister starts to talk
about how Shelby is home now,
and whole in God’s arms. So weird,
thinking about how some energy inside
you might escape when your body
dies. That it might go someplace,
become something different. An angel.
A whole other person. I don’t know.
But I’m sure there’s nothing left inside
the Shelby-looking thing in the casket.
I’ve never seen a dead person before.
Now people get up to talk about her.
Gramps goes first. He calls her
a little blossom who nourished
us with the nectar of her laughter.
Our lives are enriched because of her.
Gramps is a poet. Who knew?
Now Gram says a few words,
and Mom does, too. And then
Shane’s boyfriend, Alex, stands.
I’ve only known the Trask family
a few months. But I am grateful
for the short time I had with Shelby.
She brought light into my life, and
place because she’s there. I miss you,
Shelbs, I . . . But his throat knots
up. He can’t go on, so he returns
to his seat beside Shane, whose face
is in his hands. Almost everyone
here is crying, the one huge exception
being Aunt Marissa. She looks like a marble
statue—hard, white, unmoving. In fact,
she could be dead, too, except every now
and again she blinks dry eyes. Maybe you
only have to die inside to turn into a zombie.
After the Words
And Disney Channel music are finished,
the casket is closed. Shane, Alex, Gramps
and Uncle Chris carry it to the hearse
and we form a car parade to follow it to
the cemetery. Will you please ride with
Gram and Marissa? Mom asks me. I want
to talk privately with Gramps. She offers
no other explanation, leaving me totally
wondering, again, what’s up with her.
More too-adult-for-me-to-know-about
stuff, no doubt. But what can I do except
say, “Sure.” I sit in the back with Gram.
All of us wall ourselves up into invisible
boxes of silence. It’s a fifteen-minute
creep-along ride, and I steal a few to text
Lucas. FUNERALS SUCK. CAN I C U
TOMORROW? I have no idea how I’ll
sneak away, but I’ll think of something.
In the past week, we’ve seen each other
three times—the day after the rib cook-off,
when he and Kurt came out to Washoe Valley
and picked up Bri and me at the 7-Eleven; and
twice after school. I’m glad he has a car.
Each time, we found a private place to park.
He keeps trying to get me stoned, but
so far I’ve been good. What I’ve been bad
about is making out. He’s the best kisser
in the world. The last time I even let him
go to second base. Amazing! But the days
I don’t see him just seem so long. Especially
since they’ve been all about death. I need
a big injection of life. It will have to wait
for a w
hile, though. Right now, I get out
of the car, follow the people procession
to the gravesite where what’s left of Shelby
will be left to decay beneath Nevada sand.
A Gentle Slant
Of September sun spotlights
the casket as they lower it
into the ground. At the cemetery’s
edges, the rabbit brush is blooming.
The air is thick with its pollen and
its bittersweet scent mixes with the perfume
of Gram’s citrusy shampoo. Together,
they smell like rotting oranges. The coffin
hits dirt with a soft whump. I watch
them pull the canvas straps out of the hole.
The minister says some final words,
invites us to take a single purple rose
from the vase beside the grave, toss
it inside. Tink. Tink. Tink. They hit
the casket lid. My ears go hypersensitive.
A jet landing. A dove moaning.
Sniffling. Distant traffic. A train passing
nearby. Music. A symphony of death.
After the Dirge
We go to party. The wake is at
my house. Whoopee. I think
it’s weird that people celebrate
dying. Is that something I’ll get
when I’m allowed to be grown-up?
Gram and Gramps spent all day
yesterday cooking. I ride home
with them, ahead of the rest, so we
can start putting food out on the long
table Mom borrowed. Everything,
from the tablecloth to the napkins
to the centerpiece flowers, is purple
and pink. Shelby’s favorite colors.
It was a nice ceremony, says Gram.
Don’t you think so? Gramps and I
mutter agreement. I mean, how nice
can a funeral be? People start arriving
within a half hour. Oh, good. There’s
Bri, with Trace, Mikayla and their dad.
Mrs. Carlisle isn’t with them. Not into wakes?
Bri and I Load Plates
Leave Trace and Mikayla surrounded
by talkative adults, go back into my room
to eat. I take the time to check my cell.
No text messages. No voice mails.
“Wonder what’s up with Lucas,” I mumble
around a bite of Gram’s homemade pizza.
Mm-mm-mmh, is the best Bri can do.
Then she swallows. But before she can
comment on Lucas, she notices something