Oh Boy! (BL)

0 - Memory: Farewell

August 2021

Life is a strange phenomenon. Almost eight billion people are living on this planet; eight billion bodies, eight billion minds, eight billion stories often hidden behind fake smiles. Eight billion...suddenly thrown into this game called life. Oh! Don't worry; this won't be a story about the miracle of birth, nor will it be a sonnet about the meaning of life.

No, these thoughts come to my mind while my eyes linger on the dark mahogany coffin in front of me. It lies on top of two trestles hidden under a pearl white tablecloth and even the beautiful bouquet of white lilies and colorful dahlias sitting on top of the lid can't hide that, in many cases, life is given to you as sudden as it is taken from you. From the coffin to the flowers to the grey-haired priest speaking in front of the mourning crowd, everything has been carefully chosen by the broken young man sitting right next to me. His dark hair was neatly styled when I picked him up this morning, but now after hours of constantly running his hands through it, it is a single mess.

Yeah, I think while taking Josh's trembling hand in mine, life is a strange phenomenon. And it doesn't give a damn about who is left behind.

The priest, a proud man in his late sixties dressed not in a conservative robe but a formal black suit, speaks to the crowd of people sitting in front of the grave with a comforting voice. What he says? I have no idea; for most of the time, my thoughts have been traveling back to the moments of happiness in my own life, and to the moments of pain. And no matter how hard I try I can't prevent them from bringing up an image that is both: Happiness and pain. It's the image of a boy with silver eyes and a bright smile calling my name; telling me he loves me. But whenever a breeze of the warm summer winds caresses my pale skin, I return to the now.

Not the warm August wind, nor the birds flying over the majestic crowns of the green leaf trees made Josh decide to hold the ceremony outside. No, my best friend wanted to give his grandma the chance to be there when her husband comes to lie beside her. At least symbolically.

"Edith Parker," I quietly recite the words already engraved in the black marble stone. I never met the kind-hearted poet, but I know that she was more like a mother than a grandma to Josh, who lost his parents at an early age.

"Memories define who we are," the priest's low and calming voice finally reaches my ears, and I begin to regret that I haven't listened to his words sooner when he recites one of the many lines written by Charles Parker, better known as C. C. Starling. "So, let our memories of today define the people we're going to be tomorrow." The priest puts his speech cards down when he decides to stray from the words that are written on them. "The memories of his beloved wife, Edith, shaped the Charles we all knew and loved. They made him survive her loss and fight for the grandson they both brought up together. Now they are reunited in heaven, watching over us. Death couldn't do their love apart, so let our love for Charles keep him alive, too. In our memories, in our lives, in our future."

Love.

With the hand that is not being crushed in Josh's death-grip, I rub over the burning spot on my chest. It's an unconscious movement, useless for it cannot eradicate the pain inside my heart; but it is not unfamiliar. If life is a strange phenomenon, then love - at least to me - is even stranger. Eleven years ago, I lost my heart to that silver-eyed boy I keep on thinking about and have been living with a dark hole inside my chest for just as long. Our love was unexpected, fast, and we crashed against a wall called reality before we really began. I know that losing Clay back then was different from Charles losing Edith, or from Josh losing Charles but it seems that my memory refuses to make a difference.

The moment when the priest steps aside and turns towards the deep hole into which Charles's coffin will be lowered soon, Josh squeezes my hand and mutters with tear-struck voice: "Cancer is a bitch." Josh's chocolate eyes are swollen, his running nose red from the numerous times he's had to use his handkerchief, his usually tanned face has lost all its color. But no matter how hard it must be, Josh still gets up from his seat to claim the place among five other strong men, ready to lower Charles into the ground.