Fly

She sits in the unfamiliar pew, shifting on the hard wooden seat, fidgeting with the hem of her new black dress. She has never had to buy a dress like this before. Not for something like this. Her vision becomes hazy, staring blankly at the cold stained-glass windows which seemed to do anything but let sunlight in. But there was no sun in the sky today, just a humid scattering of grey clouds. Tough luck, the nun had said. 

Her mother grasps her hand, firmly, sharply. But her hand remains limp. She had never been able to match her mother’s tears, hot particles of emotion drifting noiselessly down her face. She merely felt a cold emptiness sitting in her stomach like a brick of iron. She spots her brother shaking hands with the congregation, which seemed to be more like mere semblances of people, vague in nature and appearance. They became a faceless, darkly-clothed militia armed with condolences, cards, and casseroles. They take their seats solemnly, grim-faced. She knew he never liked these kinds of things, that he’d be shooting her a wink above the heads of these strangers.

A man dressed in green robes processes into position. She can’t help but snicker at his ridiculous sash, his hat. He has always told her that these priests were so pompous, yet they dressed like stalks of flowing broccoli. Her mother shushes her wordlessly with a knowing look. The priest begins to speak about how her father was a great man, a great citizen. A veteran of the Air Force. An educator in the public school system. He road-tripped across the Rocky Mountains at 16 with his then-girlfriend, now-wife. A great football fan, to the chuckles of the congregation. A devoted husband, father, and friend. 

His words turn into a low buzz as the anger begins to rise from her toes, through her stomach, into her ears. This wasn’t him. She knew that wasn’t him. Those were just words. Her father went beyond those arbitrary titles to form a person this priest could not encapsulate. But she supposes she could not blame him. Her father’s real self, his true self, was reserved for a select few. Her father was strong, could withstand any vituperation which may be thrown at him, answering it with a calm collectedness in his voice that could solve any problem. He also was weak, easily backing down when confronted, pairing his confusion with an infectious laugh. Her father was witty and good with his hands, teaching her to fold paper airplanes and weave flower crowns from the daisies in the backyard. Two corners in, hot-dog fold, two equal wings, and fly. He was awkwardly tall, living in a world above the heads of the common man. She had inherited that from him. We’re in a league of our own, he’d always say. Usually she was ashamed, stooping low with her shoulders and neck. But today she held her head high. He was devoted to his beloved Labrador Retriever, Buddy, who he only bought at the pleading of his children. He grumbled about the puppy who he secretly fed scraps to under the table every night at dinner. He forced the entire family to take a year’s worth of sign language classes. She would sit and watch as he joyfully configured his hands, listening intently to every instruction, practicing for hours in the comforts of his bedroom. But he could never quite figure out the difference between L and M. He never was one for religion, but it was vastly important to his wife so the family became pious saints. He was a loud singer and a quiet typer, although he wasn’t very good at either one. He was soulful, writing love letters to his wife throughout their 30 years of marriage. He always wanted to watch her mother read the letters, blushing like a young boy on Valentine’s Day. She stops for a moment as the memories flood back, transforming that dreadful emptiness into her mother’s hot, noiseless tears. Most of all she was proud - proud of the man who led by example, a beautiful mess of a companion whom she sought to emulate in her words, actions, and thoughts. 

She could only imagine how he felt gripping the armrest of his seat, knowing that his world was gone forever, spinning out of control. The dangling airbag smacking his face as they rocked back and forth. The blinking lights blurring his vision as he steeled his breath, planting himself firmly in his present. Knowing that he was gone too soon, that he wouldn’t see his son’s first job, or his daughter’s high school graduation. Knowing that he would never get to scratch Buddy’s head again, or kiss his wife’s cheek. Knowing that a stranger would celebrate his life through a mere list of his accomplishments. He always hated funerals. 

She sits and conjures a final image of her father, closing his eyes to maintain his composure, thinking of his select few one last time. He steadies his hands, carefully and methodically signing an I with his pinky, an L with his thumb and pointer, and a Y with all three. He has confidence in his message, knowing it will be received by those who it is meant for. Then suddenly he disappears into thin air, skyrocketing into whatever comes next.

The dronings of the priest continued while she remained miles away, lost in the aroma of nostalgia and the haze of grief. The world was a better place with him in it, and she could picture ever adjusting to her new reality. Perhaps her father was really gone, gone forever, with only few to really remember him. The rest would be content with his road trip across the Rocky Mountains, his teacher of the month award from the school district. They would never know the daisy chains, the table scraps, the love letters. All of this meant nothing as she sat in the unfamiliar pew, shifting on the hard wooden seat, fidgeting with the hem of her new black dress.