Inside the Lambert Family Funeral Home and Crematorium, there is a line on the floor. A line that situates you within the hierarchy of the funeral home ecosystem. On one side of the line, there are those that move throughout the funeral home without ever placing their feet on the ground. They meander through the processional with their straight ties and freshly pressed black silk dresses, a single glimmering tear gracing the corner of one eye. On the other hand, there are those who are firmly planted on the bereaved side of the line. Sweaty palms from far too many handshakes and tight whimpering hugs. A wrinkled black button up and a black skirt just a size too small, for there is not much time for primping and prepping when the world as you know it is burning down.

On the day of my older brother Tyler’s funeral, it was raining. Not a drizzle, or the type of late August rain that feels warm to the touch and makes you want to stomp through splashy puddles, but a torrential downpour. My heels clicked on the cracked tar of the funeral home parking lot as I hurried my way inside, more focused on my damp hair than the festivities approaching. An eerie quiet drips down the walls and seeps into the floors of the home, only to be wiped clean by pained sobs. Poster boards plastered with childish grins and big brown eyes sit at every corner of the room, while a shitty montage of pictures and home videos cycles over the mounted television on the wall. My mother weeps, staring at his memorial card. I slide it into the pocket of my cardigan as if it is a baseball card. Reluctantly, I make my way over to his urn in the next room. My grandmother is kneeling before it, whispering her final goodbye to him. Once she has finished, she motions for me to take my turn. I can hear her voice in my head telling me to cry. So I clasp my hands together and close my eyes as tightly as I can. Yet there is not a prayer or word that lingers on my lips, only the thought of my rumbling stomach and the sound of the rain pattering on the windows. “How long does it take to pray,” I think to myself as I begin to rise. My mother grabs my hand to pull me into her chest, tears fall over her cheeks which spill onto the top of my head. I smile to myself. For my mind would not allow me to fully feel any negative emotion. Avoiding any further exposure to grief, I peel myself away from my mother’s chest and turn my attention to one of the funeral home workers who was unraveling a roll of duct tape on the floor.

“What are you doing?” I ask while examining his work.

“I am making a barrier. State COVID-19 guidelines require that there is a barrier between the family and everyone else to avoid contact,” he states quite matter of factly.

My mom glances up with tears in her eyes, “God that makes me feel like an animal at the damn zoo.”

*

It began with the dentist. Followed by the small staff of hygienists and the receptionist we have known our whole lives. Barbra, the receptionist, who always seems to remember my disdain for mint fluoride treatments despite only seeing me every six months, came in with tears in her eyes. She grabs my shoulders and pulls me in closely, very clearly breaking the whole purpose of the so-called “barrier.”

“Oh, if I only knew,” she sobs into my shoulder.

I nod empathetically, acknowledging her temporary feelings of grief but in my mind I am cursing under my breath. She did not know him beyond cavity fillings and his favorite brand of toothpaste. Who was she to believe she could have prevented his death, or helped him through this silent war he was fighting. Why was she granted the gift of tears and experiencing emotion while I stood lifelessly in my black suede heels preparing to shake the next hand that was thrust towards me.

For the next two hours, I willed myself to cry but was unable to. Despite the revolving door of people and the tears that poured from their eyes, I did not crack. I procured hugs and accepted their sympathies, but I was unable to perform in the way everyone wanted. People want a show, they want trauma to sink their teeth into, and a juicy story of how someone so young could die so quickly. Some visitors even probed me with questions, asking how he died or if we knew it was coming. My answer is always minimal.

“He went before midnight on the day before his birthday, we didn’t know until noon the next day,” I squeak out robotically. I do not tell them how I can still feel his skin on the back of my hand. Cold and hard like plastic. I do not tell anyone about how earth shattering my mother’s screams were that day. I simply nod and say thank you. But I can feel their pity cast onto me like a dark shadow. Beyond their sympathetic tears and heartfelt condolences, I feel the bars of my enclosure come up around me. I am a spectacle for them to watch but never feel.

There is a fence between me and everyone else in the room. Only few dare to break the barrier for there is a fear that someone may catch my grievances. No one wishes to be the girl that cannot cry. Even those that come close to me are distanced by the endless canyon of grief that separates us. Miles and miles of dark and twisted roads that all lead back to the moment that I cut the belt from around Tyler’s neck days prior. Every word I speak feels like a shout into the void. No one seems to hear my cries for help because I am alone in this cage.

Perhaps the worst part of funerals is the end. No more hands to shake, no hugs to be had. Not even a burial, for all that is left of Tyler is the navy blue ceramic urn that holds his ashes. I watch as everyone heads toward the parking lot, wiping their tears away with wrinkled tissues from their pockets. They climb into their cars, static pours from their radios as they drive down the street, back to their normal lives. “Take me with you,” I think to myself. But I can’t because animals aren’t supposed to leave the zoo.

About the Author:

Kathryn Walter is a senior at Emmanuel College in Boston studying Communications and Media Studies with concentrations in Marketing and Creative Writing. This is her first publication. 

*Feature image by Dmitry Ratushny on Unsplash