Lack of Closure

It is devastatingly quiet...

This was postponed for two weeks. Most of the state, having been buried in a foot of snow. Eerie, how snowstorms both disrupt and halt life.

A tap on my shoulder.

Uncle Marc passes me a Kleenex. He gives me a quiet nod and hurries to Aunt Marsha. Face buried in her hands.

I tuck the Kleenex in my jacket pocket. The brown Peacoat jacket, that always seems reserved for things like this. It’s like my “death” jacket. I semi consider throwing it in the garbage after that thought crosses my mind.

There is a rustling sound, and I notice everyone is standing. I do the same. I see the pastor’s mouth moving but am unsure of what he is even saying. It’s like I’m underwater and I can’t hear anything. But unlike the blue-green color of the ocean, I see black.

“Lully,” a voice jogs me from the fog. My father is looking at me. Eyes full of warmth, as it always is, but with a twinge of sadness now attached. “Lully.” He gestures for me to go forward.

Somehow, my feet manage the feat. Pastor Calvin reaches out his hand but for some reason, I bury myself into his black collared shirt. He pats my head gently. “When you’re ready, Lully.”

I don’ t think that I’ll ever be ready but slightly aware that I am leaving mascara-stained streaks on his shirt, I let Pastor Calvin take his seat next to my father and I stand behind the podium.

I look out upon the room, packed to the brim with people, because the church did not have enough seating for everyone.

Aunt Margaret, sitting next to Uncle G, would have been a catastrophic disaster, if not for the day. Aunt Rayna, sitting next to my father, is always a symbol of resolve and grace. My best friend from childhood, Petra and her husband, were sitting behind Uncle Marc and Aunt Marsha. Funny, how people 20 years buried in your past, find their way to these things. There are plenty of other people I recognize and plenty of people, I do not.

“I…” I begin to speak but my voice sounds scratchy and reminiscent of Kermit the Frog. I swallow. My father gives me a reassuring nod.

“I never would have thought I would be standing here. In this moment. Giving the eulogy at my mother’s funeral.”

The words feel like bricks in my throat.

“My mother was a kind and generous soul. Always sacrificing her time for others…” My voice trailed off again and I looked down at my crumbled paper and didn’t even recognize the words. When did I even write these words?

I looked at hundreds of people before me, and I decided in that moment that I couldn’t do it. I can’t eulogize to my mother. I beg, within myself, that someone will save me from this moment and someone does.

Uncle G, in his black shirt, blue jeans and classic Adidas stands before me. “It’s okay, Lul.” He pats me on the shoulder, and my feet carry me back to the side of my father.

There is a slight murmur throughout the room. Not so much from me stepping down but from Uncle G. taking my place. “Depending on how this goes…you’re up,” Grandpa Thomas whispers to Pastor Calvin, from behind us.

Uncle G. clears his throat and rubs his hair through his hair. “I don’t know what to say. I mean, who ever really knows what to say? There is no perfect way to say goodbye to someone that you love…”

A week later, I’m sitting in my parents’ kitchen, nursing a cup of coffee. Probably lukewarm by now. My father is at the deli. Even with the shortened hours, he has maintained his presence there. His staff says they can handle it but they’re much too polite to push him out the door. So, he stays.

I look around the room. Old pictures of me plastered on the refrigerator. A takeout menu for one and only pizza restaurant in the city, worth consuming twice. My mom’s old Kitchen Aid mixer, the coffee maker they’ve had since I was 15 and the Snoopy and Charlie Brown salt and pepper shakers. In the kitchen window, there is a pot of sunflowers. My mother’s favorite flower.

I dump the coffee in the sink, leaving the kitchen and its memories behind. I look at the suitcase in the entryway and feel a twinge of guilt. Not telling my father that I am leaving feels wrong, in multiple ways, but I cannot bear a moment longer in this house.

At least for the time being.

Sitting on the airplane, my phone dings. It’s a text from my father.

Home is always here. Love you Lul.

I feel tears beginning to sting my eyes, but I quickly wipe them away.

Two days later, I am sitting in my apartment. The curtains are drawn. The dishes in the sink are stacked so high, it’s like out of a cartoon. Some random shows are playing on my television, but I can’t remember what it is. I don’t remember the last time I’ve showered. Or if I had brushed my teeth. My hair is wrapped up in a high bun. One big ball of tangles, I’m sure.

A knock comes on the door. Just one.

Must be the mailman.

A few moments pass and I decide to get the mail, just so one of my nosy neighbors doesn’t feel compelled to commit a federal offense of stealing my mail.

A few bills. An ad for random coupons. A box of skincare I ordered months ago. And an envelope addressed to me. A lilac envelope with no return address.

Sitting back on the couch, after a quick walk to the cabinet to get a bag of potato chips, I open the envelope.

I drop the bag of potato chips on the floor.

Lully,

I’m assuming by now, I am gone.

Hopefully, the funeral wasn’t a spectacle. Somehow, our family has always mismanaged handling those things without much dignity.

I’m sorry that I am no longer with you.

That pains me more than you’ll know.

I also want you to go home. I know you’re back in your New York apartment and I know you probably haven’t left it in some time. You should be closer to your dad. He won’t say it, but he would appreciate the support.

Who else is he going to do the New York Times crossword puzzle with? Or give him a reason to drop off a random jelly donut and coffee?

I also want you to know that for quite some time now, I have been living with stomach cancer. Something very few people knew. Only me, your father, and your Uncle Gerald.

He is flighty but never have I known a more trusting human being.

I know it was wrong not to tell you. I just wanted to spare you the constant worry.

Please forgive me.

Until we meet again.

Love you, Mom.

Stomach cancer. The words spin through my mind like an algebraic equation. I feel my breathing quicker and I must steady myself.

My phone rang, startling me to the present.

It’s my father.

“Lul, it’s been four months. It’s time to come home.”

Four months?

There’s no way.

“Dad, it hasn’t been four months since mom died.” A silence comes over the phone.

“Lul, it has been.” My father’s voice is gentle but sounds slightly concerned.

“Dad, I’ve only been home for a few weeks.”

“No, Lul, you haven’t.”