PASSING (fragments)

Death in a nutshell: there's no such thing. Death is long and drawn out. It creates this vacuum that sucks the life out of you. And that's just for those still living.

You stare at this lifeless being. All that races through your mind is just how much life was created because of this mound of flesh that is now slowly deteriorating at a pace you'rere not allowed to stick around to witness. Or stomach.

I'm waiting for a part of me to scream that makes no sound. Must be my heart. But the beating, or in this case --- thudding, is audible. Especially through the raw silk Ma insisted we wear. It's rough and crinkles when I move. So that leaves my spirit --- of which has left me to join with my father's. Pop. I miss him so much it hurts like hell. And believe me, I've been to hell and back more trips than I care to remember right now.

My uncle Dan sits and soaks in every detail of the service. His boisterous entrances and belly-bouncing laughter muted. Much to my family's relief, but to my dismay --- I need energy, and I was counting on a few boosts from Dan.

I gravitate to the front pew where my uncle is. I sneak a peek at him. Dan's tears are masked behind bloodshot eyes. He reminds me of those toads people put in front of their houses for good luck. You know, the ones that have a huge gold coin pressed between their lips. His eyes are forever watching and waiting. Ready to jump to our family's rescue when needed. I'm so thankful he's around. I don't find out until later that he used to be part of a special police task force. All I know is the man likes his liquids. He knows them all by scent and reminds me what class they all belong to.
"You see Marie," he'd slur in between his best friends Jack D. and Jose C. "You godda know which one goes where, in your tummy." Dan adores me. The feeling is mutual. We grub together on occasion, but keep our drinks mixed only during holidays. It's safety in numbers. Our unofficial policy was agreed upon when I turned 21. Thank God.

"Did anyone pick up mom's insulin?" Martha zigzags into the room. She's pitter-pattering among the younger folk. They clamor for her attention. She's semi-frantic, yet needs more distraction. Marty's good at keeping busy. In fact, she's TOO good. That's what gets her in trouble. The obligation to keep everything intact is her pitfall. My sister's what you call a peacekeeper. Her distaste for confrontations keeps her from being considered a "peacemaker." In her mind, there's no difference. I live to witness the day she comes across the epiphany defining the two.

Marty flies past Dan and I. She's irritated. I start to reach out to tap her, think better of it, and watch her quiz my brother about my mom's medication. He's clueless. Poor kid. It comes with the perks of waking up second to last.

Freddie is slumped against the wall. Exhaustion is so unbecoming. I wait until Marty finishes berating him before I walk over to my "kid" brother. I lightly rub his lower back. He fell off his skateboard yesterday, so I know he's still sore. Physically, that is.

"What are you, a certified masseuse now?" I shoot him the LOOK. Sarcasm in our family is an art. Freddie's the champion, and he's shot me in the hip this time. I've been yapping about career changes and how there's nothing wrong with exploring "get-rich-quick" options. I'm the family "nut" and I'm fine with that. Just wait: they'll stop laughing once FORTUNE starts snooping around for exclusive interviews.

I want to hug the guy if he'd allow it. Barely past legal and Freddie's already been doled the ultimate burden: the whole ancestry line now lies on his shoulders. The namesake. A prince unprepared to say the words "King me." Shove it on someone else, his slouch emanates. I playfully pat his left cheek, "Only two-and-a-half more days of Vegan..."

"Aw, you're NOT going to start griping about that again, are you?"

"What? I crave meat, and you give me shit?" I'm only half-joking. My resentment over having to live out religious rituals I don't follow, bites. I'm trying to be a good sport, but missing the point miserably. I know it. My defense mechanism kicks in anyway. I don't stick around for his comeback. I scan the room quickly for Marty. Maybe she's in a better mood. No luck. Aunt Beatrice has got her cornered in the kitchen. They're discussing tonight's agenda, and from the look of my sister's sour expression, I can tell Aunt Bea's not too keen on our chosen program.

I slip into the patio for some air. Our not-so-baby-of-the-family, Beth, is cuddled up on the padded bench by the prayer/thought box. She's got my Discman cued to her soap operas. Once the kids found that my portable CD-player could tune into television stations, the need to "take a break" hit around the mid-afternoon hours when TV trash was at its peak. I slip into the seat beside her.

"Touch me and die." Beth doesn't mince words.

"There's plenty of room in that coffin next to Pop." I grin. Beth groans. I poke her anyway. She elbows me back, but I'm quicker than she is. We start our tickle-war.

"Don't you guys know when to quit?" Marty seethes. I hate this. She's in her watchdog mode. Beth and I just happen to be in her line of sight.

"Dude!" I can't stand this somber state we're supposed to swelter under. "Isn't it enough Pop is gone? Why do we need to be more bummed than we already are?" I kill myself, really. An English major, and here I am using words like "bummed" and "dude" every five-seconds or less. I miss my Pop more than ever.


**************


I circle the parking lot. Twice. The church lights are dim. The windows barely cover the warmth from inside.
A figure emerges by the church's side. So familiar is the Charlie Chaplain gait. His arms are full --- carrying what looks like two overstuffed sleeping bags. I feel my chest tighten as I maneuver my car over to him. He doesn't seem to notice.
"Pop?" I feel like an idiot asking such a redundant question. I'm still in shock to find him in the church parking lot. Don't know what stuns me more: the fact that he's in the parking lot at a quarter to 10 p.m. on a Wednesday night, or that he's within 80 feet of a church. Any church.
The sleeping bags muffle his reply. I can't tell if he's embarrassed to see me --- or relieved. The church lot is empty. I open the car door and step out, leaving the engine running. This is surreal.
"Where's your keys Pop?" I grab his load. He doesn't look me in they eye as he fumbles with his pockets. He's got on a simple worn out white turtleneck that mom made years ago back in her pre-diabetic sewing kick days. The blue and red striped suspenders stretch down a little bit as he digs deep into both pockets. His brow furrows.
"D'you think..." Before I can finish the thought, he turns and answers my question. Pop goes up to the side of the church office and looks at the keyhole. Yup.
He returns. Still avoiding my quizzical gaze. It's pride. Stubborn pride. I know. I have it. It runs deep.
If this isn't a dream, I'm not sure what it is. My eyes are still not fully adjusted since the LASIK surgery. The halos around the streetlights still bother me.
It's misleading. The way I'm feeling watching my dad living out this mystery. It's a little on the ridiculous side. I'm not sure why he's being secretive about delivering these sleeping bags to my home church. At the same instant, I'm feeling as though I'm walking on the edge of our relationship again.
This could go two ways. He could feel busted. Or this is a spiritual breakthrough for the both of us.


*******


Nathan walks up to the picture of Pop. I can hear the conversation between their hearts.

"Hello Mr. P."

"Oh, hello Nathan. Thank you for coming. For visiting me."

"Everything going according to plan, sir?"

"Oh, yes. But..."

"What can I do, sir? Do you need anything?"

"My wife. The girls. My son..."

"Sir, I promise." Nathan makes the sign of the cross. He closes his eyes and sighs inaudibly. I hold my breath. I want to ask him what his promise was, but he'll think I'm crazy. Wait. He already KNOWS that I'm nuts.

Nate is the reflection of my universe: reminds me who I can be, and doesn't allow me to dwell on what I am. He refuses to let me torture myself with truth that burns. Nate likes playing with pretty lies: exposing them when they become toxic. It's like being a firefighter and magician in one. Potent. Childhood heroes melded into one single being. A superhero, really, especially when he delves into my neuroses. I'm enchanted. We came back together when staying apart was a joke. Rules broken freed us from temptations and helped us laugh at taboos.

"What are you looking at?" Beth is by my side. She's got her arms wrapped protectively around her waist. Smart girl. She knows not to be vulnerable around me.

"She's watching over me like a hawk." I could feel his breath tickling the top of my head. Standing almost a foot taller than me, I lean back against Nate's protective frame. His presence is healing --- a pocket for me to hide my vulnerabilities. I allow myself this vice: I need physical intimacy. Emotional numbness wears me thin. Nate knows it. He holds me amid disproving glances.  The thickness of the moment is interrupted by Ma's muffled sobs. I detract myself from the safety of Nate's embrace. My mother's heartache is contagious.

"Do you even know what a hawk looks like?" I could hear my youngest sister quizzing Nate as I make my way to Ma's side.

*****************************************************

The way he looks at me. He senses this in the way my eyes refuse to meet his. I don't want my internal sprinkler system to set off the alarm. The fire in my heart must die. It can't grow. I don't deal well with complications. Master of multi-tasking, I am. Yet matters of the heart I am clueless.

Jesse stands alone. Quiet and to the side. I'm not sure what to make of all this. He's got so much to say. As always... I have nothing to give him. Yet the words are spilling out of me and his silence speaks volumes. I'm not sure if this is fate undenied, or the worse case of timing.

*****************************************************

"Wake-up call?" Ben's got that hesitant look in his eyes again. I'm puzzled. He's been pretty cryptic as of late. I'm unaccustomed to him picking up on my quirks and handing them back to me. I don't know if I'm being mocked, or flattered. I just give him what he considers my trademark wry, lop-sided grimace. He reaches over to bury me in one of his big bear hugs. Normally comforting, I'm suffocating under the weight of his concern. I need to laugh. Darn IT!

"...fifty-two, fifty-seven, sixty-..." Cousin Annie is jamming her fists with the roses I've asked her to sort out. Golden. Pop's favorite color.

******************************************************

Leigh pauses to take in her somber audience. I'm proud of her for wanting to do this for Pop. He's beaming from inside his casket. I'm sure of it. Leigh's holding our hearts and she knows it.

******************************************************

His wings spread out. The hawk hangs on our anticipation. The silence invites our spirits to unite under the majestic bird's gaze. He dangles our hopes in midair. I don't believe in reincarnation, but it's my Pop. I just know it.

The flutter of wings jerks my attention back to the mound of dirt and wilting flowers. The two black crows silently sail to where the hawk hangs in the distance. The three circle over our heads in unison. Leigh waves. Slowly others follow suit. My hand covers my mouth, muffling the sobs I don't release. Tanya's arm rests around my waist and pulls me tightly against her. Ben edges closer and cradles my head against his chest. I know he hates being mussed up, and the salt from my tears are wreaking havoc against his Italian silks. He doesn't mind. Ben knows how to appreciate sentimental souvenirs.