Evergreen

I’ve always liked funerals. There is something strikingly beautiful about gathering to celebrate someone after they’re gone. Bonding with friends and strangers over shared absence. Reminiscing through tears, realizing the happiness that once was.

It sounds morbid, but I don’t mean it to be. Grief is a powerful unifier, and I’ve seen the resilience it gives communities, pulling families closer with its worn hands and warm heart.  

Today is Chelsea’s funeral. It is also my birthday. 

I am curving through Pine Street for the first time in years, driving up the hills towards the old church. Gray clouds loom gently above the town, casting shadows over the soaring trees that crowd my peripherals. The conifers have been there for decades, maybe centuries, their leaves and branches stuck in perpetual Spring as the seasons spin around them.  

Music plays on the radio, a raspy voice crooning over an acoustic guitar. I don’t recognize the song or the artist, but I turn up the dial until I can’t hear the wheels spinning under my car. 

“You were everything to me,” the woman sings, sorrow shaping her vowels. “Baby, why’d you have to go?” 

I turn into the parking lot, sadness pricking the corners of my eyes. The world is a little blurry as I stop the car and climb out. I press my hands to my forehead, drawing in a deep breath to steady myself. 

I said I liked funerals. I never said I liked losing someone I loved. 

The priest spots me as I approach the massive double doors, the corners of his mouth stretching into a sympathetic smile. I’ve seen a lot of priests lately—funerals have become a more and more frequent event in my life—but I haven’t made the trip up to St. Mary’s until now. 

So, squinting across the courtyard, I am shocked to see Daniel standing there, modestly clad in a black cassock, a beaded cross around his neck. An ancient memory of him drunkenly jumping off the roof into a pool resurfaces, the obscenities that poured from his mouth as he climbed onto the deck, his clothes soaked completely through. That Daniel would’ve laughed at the chaste, cane-wielding man in front of me, yet here he is. 

“Welcome,” he calls out, and I can see him scanning my face, isolating my features, trying to recall my name. I want to reach out to him, to catch up, to fill in the blanks between the boy I knew and the clergyman in front of me. But I can’t. 

“It’s Johnathan,” I lie, before he can ask. Before he can really recognize me. 

“Of course. Welcome, Johnathan,” he says warmly, his wrinkled eyes faintly curious as he directs me to the funeral guest book. 

The leather-bound pages sit open on a wooden podium, light from a stained glass window twisting colors onto its many signatures. I stare at it, names from my past intertwined with names I’d never seen before.

“Chelsea, you were the love of my life,” reads one note, written in sprawling cursive. “You will always be with me.” 

Heat rises to my cheeks automatically. I don’t want to look at the name of the person who penned it, but my instincts betray me. 

“Lucas Adaway.” 

Lucas Adaway. 

I was foolish to think she wouldn’t find someone else. Stolen kisses and whispered promises can only linger for so long, vows of return expired into distant memories until they were broken into release. 

Soft chatter from the main hall spills into the atrium as I reach for the pen. It’s heavy in my hand. 

I twirl it between my fingers, thinking. I don’t know what to write. I have nothing to say.

Then, a woman bursts through the doors, and I can see into the church. It’s just how I remember it, the towering crucifix watching over the humble altar. And there, in front of the auburn pews—her picture. 

Deep brown eyes on a light brown face, an expression of unparalleled joy bursting through her smile. An expression I’ve longed for so many years to see again. 

She is twenty in that image. I know because I took the photo, the day before I left. We had walked down to the lake like we always did, and I screamed as she pushed me into the water. I pulled her in after me, and we swam until we were exhausted, our fingers creased like raisins. We laid on the grass for hours after, talking and smoking and singing and laughing. We dreamed about our future, about growing old together. I never told her I was leaving, never wanted to see her beautiful face break into tears. And now I’ll never get to say goodbye.

I write my name and nothing else. The “T” in Thomas is crooked, sloping awkwardly at the bottom of the page. It looks so minuscule, so inconsequential next to all of these other people who had a greater impact on her life than I ever could. 

“Hi,” the woman from before quietly greets me, pulling me from my trance. “You can go in if you’d like. The service is about to begin.”

I nod, setting down the pen. I take another deep breath and I walk towards the sound of Father Daniel’s voice as he starts the ceremony. Before I can go through the doors, however, the woman stops me, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder and looking straight into my face. Light gray eyebrows fold into concern as she studies me. 

“You look familiar,” she says. “How did you know Chelsea?” 

“She was an old friend of mine,” I reply, carefully choosing each word. 

The woman considers this, before finally saying, “Well, I’m glad you could make it. She will be missed by so many.”

It was Jennifer, Chelsea’s neighbor from when we were kids. She was always kind to me, and I’m glad to see that she’s still alive. I smile lightly in agreement and head inside, where a crowded church greets me. I take the farthest seat from the front.

A few rows up, a little girl nestles into her mother’s side, both of their faces stained with tears. Beside them, a man is hunched over, his hands covering his face as his chest rises and falls. A friend notices and puts a firm hand on his back, whispering words of assurance. The tired benches creak as loved ones move closer to each other, to hold each other through this loss. The muted blue of the seat cushions beside me is suddenly blinding, glaring at me in its vacancy. I fold my hands over and turn my attention to the front. 

Father Daniel speaks about the influence Chelsea had in our community, about the generosity and tenderness that we could all learn from. I listen carefully, closing my eyes as he describes the admirable character of the woman I once loved. 

I remember my eighteenth birthday, the memory box she made me as a gift. The words she wrote to me, our trip to the amusement park. It feels right that I’m here, with her, for another birthday. Sixty-two years later. 

I open my eyes when another man begins to speak. His voice bounces off the walls of the space, booming with assurance. He introduces himself as Lucas Adaway, Chelsea’s husband. He is tall, all broad shoulders and long arms. His eyes are kind. I can tell how much he loved her when his voice finally breaks. 

Suddenly, pain courses through my body. I can’t be here. I mean nothing to the people in this room, my face a distant memory in the recesses of their minds, a faint breeze dancing over the lake.

I storm out of the church, the words of Lucas Adaway’s speech choking me with their passion and affliction. There will never be anyone who will speak of me that way, no friends to console each other, no family to weep. I can barely breathe as I get into my car, my head spinning. I pull out of the lot and onto the street. 

“Young man!” someone shouts after me, but I am already gone, tearing up the canyon road as greenery whips past me. Everyone who has ever loved me has grown and died, and my vision clouds at the thought of my own profound irrelevance.

I don’t see the fork in the road before it’s too late. The redwood stares down at me, its enormous trunk solid and impenetrable, thick grooves powerful with age. 

My car smashes into the tree, the lumber almost splitting the vehicle in half. The excruciating sound of mental and bone, crunching and compacting, nearly fractures my eardrums. My body is aching, bleeding, and broken. 

But I won’t die—I can’t die. And I never will. 

That’s another reason I like funerals—we all want what we can’t have. Happy sixtieth twentieth birthday to me.