The eulogies begin, and they’re brutal. Your mother is the first one up, and she tries to joke about the nineteen-hour labor she went through with you, before she shuts down and quickly reboots. She tells everyone how she’ll miss nursing you back to health whenever you were sick, and how she regrets confiscating your Xbox One after you received a C+ on your earth science midterm. Denise is next. She tells everyone how you two used to have dance parties in the living room, which I never knew, and when she loses it, I snap up from the floor and race toward her because you’re in a casket unable to do so yourself, inviting her to sit back down with me.
I’m not surprised your father tells the story about how your first word, “sock,” was the first time it clicked with him that you were a little human being that was going to grow up to use all kinds of words to get around the world. Aunt Clara will miss your “funny little movies.” Uncle Ned doesn’t know who he’ll talk to about engines anymore. Wade keeps it quick, too, saying he misses you so much already and apologizes for wronging you. Your neighbor, Simone, is still grateful for the month you went grocery shopping for her after she crushed her leg in a car accident.
Then it’s my turn.
Not sure what they want to hear from me.
Maybe they’re interested in how our friendship began in middle school over Pompeii. And now I’m supposed to be delivering your eulogy.
I rise, helping Denise up from the floor, too. I encourage her to rejoin your parents, which she does without a fight.
I walk closer to you, your face touched up with makeup, and you don’t look like the boy I love. Your body has your features, sure, but you’re sort of chalky and very unnatural and it sends a bad chill running up my arms. The bright blue tie they chose for you would’ve gone beautifully with your open eyes. I slip into the memory of you at your graduation party, superimposing this blue tie over the green one you were wearing to see what it would look like, and then I pull myself out of this reimagining because I can’t change our history. I can’t begin remembering you wrong.
“One moment,” I tell the room.
I walk all the way to you, gripping the frame of your casket. I check my watch, waiting for the next even minute—10:42—and I touch your folded hands. You’re cold, I knew you’d be, but holding you after not being able to touch you in so long reminds me of last summer’s beach bonfire; the warmth of the glowing fire, our two-man huddle on the sand. But unlike that night, where we promised each other your leaving for college wouldn’t ruin us, I’m stuck having one-sided conversations with you as your boyfriend sits behind me. I squeeze your hands, crying a little.
I’m going to tell your friends and family a story about you, okay? I’m not going far.
I let go and turn around.
I step to the center, staring at nothing but shoes and the podium I’m tempted to hide behind.
“I love Theo,” I say, choking. I tug at my right earlobe, squeezing it between my thumb and middle finger. “He’s been my best friend since I was ten, my favorite person, who was supposed to exist forever. I told him everything, even the things about myself that scared me. Like the time I came out to him as a possible crazy person the same second he told me he was gay . . .” I tell them a bit about how we threw off our straight cloaks two years ago on June 8th, and how it taught me that honesty sometimes leads to happiness.
The memory quickly comes and goes.
I’m crying now, full on, and one hand is pulling at my ear and the other is pressed against my chest. “He made me feel safe from the world, and made me feel safe from myself.” My legs are going to give out. “I don’t know where to go from here. I don’t think any of us do. No one would’ve ever thrown down money, betting we’d be saying goodbye to Theo so soon, and it’s not fair and it’s a total nightmare. But we all have mad love for Theo, and history is how we get to keep him.”
I make my way back to my spot on the floor, thinking of a thousand more things I want to say. My dad leans over and kisses the top of my head. He tells me I did a good job, but he doesn’t know anything. I’ve said enough to everyone here, but there’s still so much I have to tell you.
Father Jeffrey approaches the altar when Jackson hops out of his seat. He steps to the podium.
“Hi everyone, I’m Jackson,” he announces in a tight voice. “I was Theo’s boyfriend in California.”
I can’t listen to this.
Except I have to. For sanity’s sake I’m going to soldier through this eulogy. You wouldn’t want me writing you off or running away. Though it gets me wondering again if you ever told him stories of me, or if you hogged memories of our time together the way you did with him. I don’t know which of the two is winning—your eagerness to tell a story about us because not doing so was suffocating, or keeping our history close to your chest like an inside joke you couldn’t possibly let anyone else in on.
Jackson is fidgety, tugging at your old watch. “My parents have been divorced since I was fourteen. Even as a kid I could tell they weren’t in love. When I finally got my driver’s license this year, it was awesome because we didn’t have to go through the awkward drop-off where my parents barely said hi to each other. I didn’t think I’d find someone I loved while driving between my parents’ houses on weekends. I didn’t even recognize it was the same guy until the third or fourth time. But one day it was raining, and I saw him on my way to Mom’s house, same time as usual, and he didn’t have an umbrella. So I pulled over, and he asked me if I often rescued strangers from the rain.”