An Uninvited Guest

The Funeral

        The day of Maggie's funeral was. . . interesting, to say the least. Both the atmosphere and the society I was kept in was unlike any other funeral I had attended before. Then again, it's one thing to attend a funeral, it's another to host it.

        And what a funeral to be attending indeed.

        Unlike every other picturesque funeral scene on a television screen, the rainy, gray scene, this funeral didn't possess any rain. There were feathery, wispy clouds up quite a ways, sirrus clouds, and they were surrounding a very thick storm cloud, cumulonimbus. That's all the clouds we had, and they weren't spread very evenly.  Everything else was sunny. Still, the air didn't feel right. It's ridiculous to think you can really "feel" air, but I felt it all right-- heavy, and muggy. Low pressure it's referred to, in weatherman terms.

        Everyone else gathered into the park dressed in "boring, sad black" to use Maggie's terms. I brought her to her grandfather's funeral and she tugged on the bottom of my dress and commented on the unusual customs of funerals. We got a couple of odd stares, some people must've overheard her, but what she said was completely true! I had to resist laughing, try to resist smiling. And shaking my head, putting on my stern face, I told her it was to honor the deceased, to formally acknowledge those who had died and the impact they made on us. Her stare and the way she blinked slowly made it clear everything bounced off. After a moment she whispered: "But if they're dressed in black," and gestured to the crowd, "that means they had a bad impact?", referring to the dead person I suppose. I opened my mouth to correct her, but then I realized the futility of an argument. Not because she was young, but because she had a point. She was onto something. I have yet to figure out what.

        I greeted everyone, and who knows how many times I heard, "I'm sorry for your loss.". . . I just smiled and said thank you, even though it was not exactly an original thought. I was given awkward kisses from faded aunts and uncles. It felt so strange to be that close to a stranger. And then I willingly exchanged cheek kisses with a couple of close friends, and, geniunely, thanked them for coming. 

        The procession began, and everyone watched the pastor with a blank expression. Again, strange when people try, and want, to be close to someone you hardly know, and don't care to know. Whether it's attending a funeral or stepping into personal bubbles, I'm not a fan.

        Out of the corner of my eye was a little girl moving, and I turned my head to get a full view. She was in a war between the giddiness of an awkward situation, believing that laughing will relieve the tension, and against the unspoken social protocol. I don't know how many times in a minute her facial expression changed between a wide-toothed smile and the effort to construct herself. Her mom noticed, finally, and nudged her. But as soon as her mom's attention gave way, she smiled to herself, almost mischeviously as she won the last laugh.

        She never noticed me thank God, and against my better judgment I snickered to myself before glancing at the pastor for the first time. I wasn't really listening before, but in case someone had noticed me too, I wanted to be in charge of myself. I scanned the crowd beside the preacher and. . . apparantly I had been caught. I was being stared down by people who had their noses held high. I looked back towards the pastor, but couldn't help feeling uncomfortable, and I shifted my eyes back. They were still watching me. So, a few minutes (but really a few seconds) later, I shot them a disdainful glare and they turned their heads slowly back towards the preacher. And then, someone right beside the flavorless bunch looked up at me. And stared. I had never seen him before in my life.

        He had black, sleek hair combed back, with a little sunvisor of bangs at the front. If I could touch it maybe I could say it was silky. About 6'2, his brows were actually very fine for a man, compared to the bushes and caterpillars I had seen from previous specimens. It's when I arrived at his eyes I was a little frightened, they were piercing light blue and I felt goosebumps arrive on my skin.

        They-- he-- were still staring. And who does this guy think he is? Wearing an Italian, personally tailored suit that's worth two grand, at the minimum. To a funeral for a girl he's never met before!

        The rest of the pastor's speech I spent looking at the grave, the pastor, and that "businessman", the one with the pale blue eyes. Grave, pastor, him. Grave, pastor, him. The speech was so monotonously long and plain, I switched up the order a bit: Pastor, him, grave. Grave, him, pastor. Him, preacher, grave.

        When it was finally over, I walked around the park a bit to stretch my legs. It was a cute little park, and the weather was tolerable. Suddenly it felt like forever since I last stepped outside.

        I took in the trees and the way the sunlight hit them, in some places the trees grabbed the light and in others it reflected and shined through the trees. I felt almost guilty for being gone from reality and beauty so long, and then guilty for admiring it, and I looked at my feet.

        "Who wears navy blue to a funeral?"

        My eyebrows scrunched together, I blinked a few times in case I had missed what was happening, and cast an averted glance to my side. And up.

        "Nice to meet you?" I scanned him over.

        "Nice to meet you too." He paused, expecting an answer to his earlier question. Clearly he's not used to this kind of treatment.

        I decided to continue walking, he'd probably leave. 

        "It's not navy, it's. . .black," I replied as I clearly enunciated the last word, clarifing for myself.

        "That is definitely blue. Dark blue, but blue nevertheless."

        Apparantly he was coming along. 

        "Seemed black to me, maybe it was the lighting." He raised an eyebrow at me, but it wasn't a judgmental eyebrow.

        "I didn't want to wear black." I shrugged, pretending not to mind.

        "It's what people wear at funerals, the customary attire."

        "Maggie never liked the 'customary attire'." I smiled as I recalled the memory.

        "And Maggie is. . ."

        "My daughter." I glanced backwards, towards the grave. "And you are?"

        He looked at me for a moment, incredibly relaxed, though the allotted time slot for typical answer was becoming unsettling. I thought I did notice a flick in his eyes. No, I must've imagined it.

        "Morgan. You can call me Morgan."

        "I always thought it was odd when people said: 'you can call me", like they had different names for every person." I chimed in, though it was a bit unnecessary and he probably didn't really care.

        "Well it's rather monotonous keeping one name your entire life." He noted, adding a short chuckle under his breath, like he released a held breath.

        After a short pause, I added, "So what brings you here today?"

        "I had some business to attend to." He glanced at a bed of flowers we were passing, and then to the trees and sky. He looked at all of them, rather unaffected. Does he have any emotions?

        "What kind of business?" I asked, mildly interested and my voice a lilt.

        "Just making sure everything was in place for the funeral, the usual."

        "Oh. So, you work at the mausoleum?"

        "In a way, yes. I have affiliation with them."

        "I see, do you go to a lot of funerals then?"

        "Many." He had been looking at the ground, or some variation of it for the past few minutes. "Well I'm afraid I must be on my way. Nice to meet you, again." He said, referring to earlier.

        "Nice to meet you too." I held out my hand. He glanced at it, then back at me. He nodded, and with his hands in his pockets, made his departure. I pulled back my hand, inspected it as if it was covered in mud, glanced back to him with a sigh, and continued my walk. I recalled the day's events on the grass, and that strange man. Morgan they called him.