Letters For You

Your funeral

Your take on religion

Saturday, December 2nd, 2017

By Emily Davis

Let me tell you the story of your funeral. I just want to warn you, it might get ugly. You would have hated it. I tried to tell them that it's not what you would have wanted but trying to be heard when a bunch of adults are shouting is not easy.

It was sad. Yes, a funeral is supposed to be sad but it was on another level of sadness. They kept showing pictures of you. Baby pictures, school pictures, you on the beach, you driving, your birthday parties. Every moment of your life was shown. Every picture had a sad and depressing quote under it. "May his life be remembered," "Eighteen should be the start of you life, not the end of it," "We love you so we will remember you," "He is now in the hands of God," "God had a different plan for him." I can hear you cringe from here. Your mother spoke. It was beautiful. Sad, but beautiful. She always had a way with words. Your grandmother spoke, but that story is for later. I wanted to speak. I wanted to remember the boy I knew. The boy half of the people present knew. They didn't let me. Because it was in a church. A church neither of us believed in.

Our story starts way before the actual date of your funeral. It starts when your mother told your grandmother about your accident. Being a good catholic, she immediately reserved her church for the next Sunday. See, you died on a Saturday and funerals have to be on Sundays to be recognized by God so we had to wait an entire week. Since it was in her church, your grandmother took the responsibility to organize the ceremony. It made sense at first since your parents were incapable of even thinking about it. She booked the priest, arranged a choir, chose some parts of the Bible that she thought were appropriate. When she showed up at your place to inform your mother about the plans, I was there. Just like your uncle Steve. This is where it gets ugly. Steve threw a fit at his mother for the inappropriate funeral she was organizing. She had planned it for her, in accords with her beliefs, not yours. Because you didn't believe. You didn't believe in God and neither did your family. Steve kept screaming at his mother to cancel everything. She threatened to dishonor everyone who would try to come between her grandson and God. Your mother kept quiet, just like I was. She reached under the table and grabbed my hand. She squeezed so hard, I thought my bones would break. I tried to cut in to suggest that we keep it at the church but lighten it up a bit. To bring a little bit of you into the ceremony. Who was I to speak that way? I was nobody. We weren't married so I didn't matter. My opinion didn't matter. On top of that, I had never done any sacraments. There was no way in hell I would talk at the ceremony. You probably didn't like me that much. We would have ended up breaking up at one point anyway. I wasn't family. She asked me to leave while they planned the details of the ceremony. So I did. I left, even if I shouldn't have. I left your mother all by herself to fend for you and, for that, I am sorry. Neither of us had the strength to fight your grandmother. Steve tried, but failed.

So, the priest read the Bible, the choir sang some religious songs, they showed pictures of you with sad and depressing quotes, God was evoked 37 times, various people said you were too young to die 51 times, we ate tasteless sandwiches in the church basement, we went to the graveyard to bury your casket, your family put lilies on top of it. I didn't get a flower because I wasn't important. And that was it. Everyone went home. Depressing, huh? Your grandma was happy. She kept telling everyone how nice the service had been. She never saw how everyone had hated it. She didn't see the look of pure hatred on your mother's face. She had ruined everyone's last chance to say goodbye to you in the way they wanted.

Ben asked everyone our age to come to school afterwards. He felt that the ceremony wouldn't be that great so he organized a little something for us. When I saw your mother before we left, I invited her. I didn't think she would show up but she did. With your father and your sister.

We were all gathered on the soccer field. Your happy place. We already felt more connected to you. The person who was speaking climbed up the stands. Everyone who wanted to say something could. Even if it was just a simple goodbye. Everyone had the permission to speak if the wanted to. Ben talked first. Then I talked. I had brought my phone and I started to play our song. Here is what I said:

"Hey you, I hate that I need to say goodbye to you. You changed my life in so many ways that there is no way I would ever be able to thank you enough so, I'll just say it once. Thank you for everything. Thank you for making me believe in love. Thank you for loving me. There is so much that I'll never have the chance to tell you, so many things that we will never do. I am so thankful to have known someone like you, to have been a part of your life, to have contributed to you becoming the man you are. I cannot bear to think that I will have to talk about you in the past now. The man you were. I might have to say that you loved me, but I can still say this: I love you and I don't think it will change anytime soon. Thank you for 4 years of friendship. Thank you for two and a half years of love. Thank you for a lifetime of memories."

I remember this because I wrote it down. If I didn't have anything planned, I wouldn't have been able to say a word. A couple more people talked. When Ben brought out the beer and called the time for a soccer game, I went to see your family. Your mother threw herself at me. She had never hugged me like that before. She kept whispering thank yous in my ear. I could feel her tears on my neck and she probably could feel mine. When she let go of me, your father gave me a hug. "Thank you for letting us say goodbye to our son properly." He let go of me after saying those words in my ear.

I believe religion is very personal to an individual. You didn't believe in God. But you believed in family. You believed in friendship. You believed in love. You didn't love God, but you loved your family, your friends, me. And you loved soccer. Maybe you can't qualify family, friends, love and soccer as a religion, but it still was what you believed in. According to Wikipedia, religion is "a cultural system of behaviors, practices and ethics." Yours were maybe not divine, but they were sacred. On Sundays, you ate with your grandparents. You saw your friends as often as you could. You put me first, all the time. Soccer practices were the most important aspect of your life. You never missed one. You found ways to have all of those parts of your life intertwined.

That's what your funeral should have celebrated. That's what we tried to do at the soccer field later that day. That's why I invited your parents to come with us. So, the different parts of your life could be intertwined one last time. 

You would have loved the party at the soccer field. Everyone participated, there was enough alcohol to make everyone sick, we played your favorite bands. There was love all around. Love for you. Love for what you were, not what someone wanted you to be. We celebrated you and, baby, there you were in all your glory.