When I was a sophomore in high school, a close friend of mine died in a car accident. It was late a night, and both drivers were drunk. One car was speeding down the highway, and the other, the one he was in, pulled out into the intersection in front of it. The other car t-boned them on the passenger side, killing him. Both drivers were uninjured.
I'm not sure that I had experienced a more personal death in my life up to that point. Family members that I had fleeting contact with and so forth, didn't really affect me. But this was a kid, a young kid with whom I had grown up with. A kid who I remember as the first person to ever call me a "motherfucker". A kid who I recall playing basketball with when I was 3 foot nothing. A kid who I was really quite fond of.
I remember attending his wake. Many of our classmates were there, and I recall, as I entered. A friend of mine, another close friend from a different circle, saw me. He had been crying, quite clearly, as many others were. I imagine it was the same situation for many of them. I did not cry. In fact, I was a little resentful of the others who were. Many of them had nothing to do with this young boy in the casket. They didn't hang out with him, they didn't talk to him, they didn't even really acknowledge his existence. I was honestly offended when my friend patted me on the shoulder and said, "Good to see you. I gotta get out of here, it's too much," and then left. This person who had barely known him, and who had only casually engaged him in conversation. A person who had gone to a different school for the past eight years until the beginning of high school. What memories did he share with the young, reposing teenager lying there on that table?
I sat towards the back of the room. I did not cry. Even as I write, my eyes grow blurry, and I feel the tears building, but in that moment, I did not cry. But I was not indifferent. Sitting there, looking at him, I felt very deeply. Everyone always says that looking upon a corpse in a funeral home, they look so peaceful and natural. As if they were just sleeping. But when I looked at him, I saw he was dead. He looked dead to me. He did not look peaceful or natural, he looked dead. And from that day on, every personal funeral I've been to that had an open casket, or a wake, it has been the same. The dead look dead. Bereft of life. Expired, deceased.
I did not cry. On the inside, I felt so many things. I was overwhelmed. Maybe I cried internally, but I don't even think I did then. I merely sat for 30 minutes or so, looking at him in silence. Watching other people make large scenes. I sat quietly, in the back, and thought about the experiences we had had together. Then, I got up, just as quietly, and left. I did not go to the funeral. I saw him dead, and that was all the closure I needed.
But I've never forgotten him. Many other friends have come and gone over the years. I've not had contact with the vast majority of people I went to high school with in many, many years. I probably only vaguely remember experiences with even half of them. But I remember many things I did with him.
In particular, I remember staying over at his dad's house one summer, several years before high school. He lived a little ways out of town. Not so much as to be far from other houses, but enough that there was a large wooded area nearby, and even in the yards of the houses there were more trees than any townie was used to seeing. During the day, we romped through the woods and explored, past a septic pond, into the rain drenched foliage, and then back again, stopping off briefly in a neighbor's yard to swipe some gooseberries. In the evening, we played some games, and around 10 pm, we decided to watch a couple movies. Now, at the risk of dating myself, it was a few years yet before DVDs were the dominant medium, and he had a couple new releases on VHS, Detroit Rock City and South Park: Bigger, Longer, and Uncut. Being a child, I was highly impressed. We watched them in that order, while he dutifully fast-forwarded through the sex scene in Detroit Rock City, as his father had told him that he was not allowed to watch that scene, we watched all of South Park, as there was no such edict against it. Eventually, after the movies, we fell asleep, though I do not remember when.
I'm still not sure I understand other people's reactions. Some of those there, were indeed his friends, and I can understand that, thinking on memories like this, they may be brought to tears. But others, as I said, only knew him as a face in class. Did not know him, his middle name, or his life. Why should they be making a big scene, crying and shrieking as if he were there best friend in the world? I suppose it must have been a familiarity issue. They had seen him every day at school, and thought they knew him as a result. Maybe it was something else. Regardless, I do not judge them. They were children, facing a personal loss, as was I. And that's all we are, isn't it? We are all children faced with our first real personal loss.
