He was Eight years old
Stickers, Super Soakers, Skateboards, and Plastic Dinosaurs
Not Caskets, Lillies, Psalms, and Tears

He was my sons brother and even if he was not my son, my heart is bleeding

I am in the second row, a place of honor
In front of me are his two sisters, my son, the boys father,and my sons mother. their bodies are all convulsing with grief

the ritual proceeds
the altar boy is the childs cousin, his eyes are red and swollen.
The priest begins to tell us how this innocent child has been called to God
his bottom lip begins to shake and he pauses

for a long time

to regain his composure
and continues to tell us to REJOICE that the spirit of such a young one has been called to heaven

my sons mother is dressed in black. she begins shaking with tears. the casket is mere feet from her, from me
the childs father comforts her as they sob
we come to a pause where the altar boy can sit down behind a beam near the altar
he collapses and weeps where few can see him
i can
and i hear the pain all around me

the small church is full. it always packs them in when a child dies. everyone is religous at the death of an innocent
the small church holds the grief, compresses it, compounds it
i can feel it all around me enfolding me, oppressing me

tears begin to make their way down my cheeks
i allow this
i allow them to find their way down my chin and fall on my fine shirt. my agony has joined together with everyone elses into a river flowing. to heaven? to hell?

The priest continues to guide us with tastefully chosen verse
it seems to help a little
maybe

i feel the sorrow mounting me. it is trying to fuck my spirit
and i allow this
i see the family weeping and i succumb to the emotional rape
i wonder how long it has been since i have been in a catholic church. several years at least. was it a funeral or a wedding? had to be one of the two
as my mind continues to plod, i look to my feet hanging my head. my eyes travel up to my stained shirt. they continue climbing to the priest at the altar and along to the roof of the church
i stare upward as words wash over me .......... it was a wedding. No Wait! it was when i tried to give blood but they wouldn't take it because of the peircings, but hey that doesn't count as i wasn't in the church part of the church. so it was a wedding..... WAS it a wedding? FUCK i don't know
my eyes are glued to the roof of the church. I am looking for God. i am asking him if he is sure he knows what the fuck he is doing down here
i know better than to ask "Why"
I have been asking "Why" a good many fucking years now and keep getting put on immaculate hold

the family begins to speak
his cousin the altar boy reads a poem
he doesn't make it through
it sounds like a nice poem but i only hear half of it through the sobs
the grandmother reads verse from the bible, fitting, about how God calls up those he is pleased with NOW possibly saving them from a worse fate, and of course, eternal damnation,in the future
again nice, but it sounds empty
the sobs and tears from the front row seem to validate my opinion

I did not know this child well yet he was in my house many many times
i knew him in minutes, the few minutes i would see him when my son was being exchanged to or from a visit with his mother
nonetheless i bleed for an innocent soul
AND
i THANK God that it was another son than mine that was taken
and i wonder if that is right

right or wrong it proceeds
throughout, i occasionally stare at my shoes, my shirt, the ceiling. i occupy myself in forming the genesis of some of these words

the ritual moves from the church to the cemetary, where more words are spoken then flowers are laid on the casket
each person approaches and says what they 'need' to say and eventually only the parents remain
they don't want to leave. fuck would you? but eventually the final goodbyes are spoken and more tears fall

and hearts strain to continue to beat