The viewing was difficult. The room, shoulder to shoulder mourners, pressed together like too many flowers smashed between glass or the pages of a book, crowded together waiting to see Landon’s body one last time before cremation. The room was full yet quiet, hot yet chilling. The air was stagnant without being stale. Every step felt like a struggle against a thick fog, like there was a chain cuffed to my ankles, pulling me back towards the door. Each step forward felt like no step at all. We did not have to wait in the long line, wrapping out of the viewing room, to see Landon’s parents, but it took us a long time to reach them. Golden light bounced off us through the windows, illuminating things we did not wish to see, things we tend to hide from each other in the dark – knotted hair from days spent in bed, mouths full of spit, swollen crusted nostrils, blood-shot eyes. My husband’s father grabs hold of me and my husband and his youngest son. He tells us he loves us no matter what. He is pleading with us. He tells us we are not alone. We can smell each other’s sweat. We can taste our own tears. These things I cannot forget. These things I will not forget.
I don’t remember the color of the casket, but I do remember all of the red hair. A forest of pinks, strawberries, coppers, oranges, and tarnished rusts. His baby sister sat in her father’s lap, just as Landon had likely done years before. Eleven brothers and sisters in total. It was rare to see them all in a room at the same time, but here they were. They too stood pressed together like weeds between laminate. The youngest colored a picture for Landon. She placed the picture in the casket and waited for him to open his eyes and see it. It sat in his casket beside him. She couldn’t understand. His face wore new scratches. I don’t know if they were from the fall from the water-tower or from days spent lying on the ground. The powder sat fresh on his face, not blending into the once lively skin. Flashes of his father and brother following buzzards to his body plague the immediate family. These things I cannot forget. These things I will not forget.
At their house after the viewing we tried to occupy the younger kids. Two of the elementary-age girls ran out of the front door, I barrelled out behind them. They sprinted down the sidewalk, I followed closely but was fearful I might actually lose track of the older one. The younger was likely just having fun, still innocent and not quite understanding the circumstances fully yet, but the older one was definitely running from something. She is a bright six, harboring a little more darkness than some of the others. I saw it in her eyes that she wanted to run off, that she wanted to be defiant, that she wanted to scream, to fight, but instead of telling them to turn around, I just chased them the other way. The younger one jumped onto the trampoline in the back. I stood outside. “You can’t catch me.” She said. She was right, I was outside of the net, it was a closed-in trampoline, and she was inside. I lurched towards the trampoline, she jumped back and laughed, falling back and then running to the other side. It grew chilly but I didn’t mind. I ran around the trampoline as many times as she wanted. My husband and the older sister soon came around and did the same. All of our noses were red and running, but we were laughing and smiling. We were transported to our own childhoods for a moment, allowing the adult thoughts to melt away, causing us to exist only in this moment with the wind and the trees and the trampoline and the children’s laughter. These things I cannot forget. These things I will not forget.
His funeral was held in a gigantic tent church in our hometown. The church was full. Teenagers made a line down the aisle, waiting to speak about him on the microphone in front of the congregation. At least that’s what we all became, a congregation. His teenage sister joked about his hair grooming routine, laughing and remembering, “Landon has your hairbrush”. Eventually the church leaders and the funeral director grew sick of the teenagers expressing their grief. They cut the line short and turned a young man’s funeral into an alter call. I lost control. I stormed out of the church, enraged at the church leaders, confused by the funeral directors, fearful for the teenagers, and disgusted with God. I waited outside until the service was over. I mourned opportunity. I mourned innocence. I mourned faith. The place he worked, a local restaurant, catered the funeral. There’s still a photo of him on the dining room wall. These things I cannot forget. These things I will not forget.
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