As I stared at Father Joseph, it hit me that everything I once knew was about to change. He started in on the final prayer to the ceremony, but my voice was too weak to repeat it. I turned to my left and saw Paris and Aires, my older sisters. They held hands and had their eyes closed as they repeated after the man in black at the altar.
I had to look away as tears started to drift to the inner corners of my eyes. Aires, named after the city where my parents once said she was conceived in, held one of my hands in hers, but my other hand was being held by someone more comforting. His name was Micah Stevens.
Micah and I met three summers ago near his grandmother's cottage in Sandy Lake, Ontario. It was actually where we now sat as this was my hometown and where my parents' funeral was taking place. We were only eighteen years old and best friends. I didn't even want to imagine going through this point in my life without him; he was my anchor.
He squeezed my hand and I looked up at him. Carefully, he wiped the tears from my cheeks and then pulled me closer to kiss the top of my head in a reassuring manner. I had let go of Aires's hand and nestled myself further into Micah's side.
I could tell that Paris, the beauty of my family and named after the most beautiful place my parents had visited, noticed this action because I could feel the weight of her gaze on my face. I chose to ignore her and closed my eyes, mouthing the final words to the oh-so-familiar prayer. This was, after all, the fourth funeral my family had been put through in the last few years.
My parents died in a car crash off the main drive in our small Ontario town. It was a curve few people attempted in the dark unless they were completely sober or had been driving it for decades. None of the high school and college kids, like my sisters or I, were allowed to take it at night. We were forced to take the straighter, more off-the-beaten-path roads to be safer. If a police officer found a teen in an accident on that drive at night, it was almost automatically a loss of their license. It may not have been entirely legal, but the town made it work for their advantage because all they were trying to do was keep the children of the town safe.
Our grandparents also passed away, only two short months apart. They were our mother's parents who had lived just around the corner from our home. Grandfather had gone first - due to diabetes. He never could get it under control, nor wanted to. Grandmother had pestered him relentlessly and he never got it through his head until it was too late. Grandmother died two short months later; we all believe it was broken heart syndrome. The doctors like to say it was a cardiac arrest, but there was little chance of that because Grandmother was the healthiest and most fit person any of us ever knew.
The final funeral, aside from my parents' combined funeral, was for our only uncle. He was our father's brother and only surviving relative that my sisters, brother, and I had the chance to get to know. He was killed by a drunk driver in the United States. His funeral was brought back here to Canada due to my father insisting that his brother be buried with their parents, so I had still yet to leave the country.
Before I could process it, the pallbearers were moving the caskets passed us, my brother Dallas was one of them. They passed our pew and then we followed behind them. Paris, being the oldest, led us out and stopped at the front door of the church to receive final condolences from friends and relatives before they either headed home or to the luncheon we had planned. As a family, we were going to see my parents' burial and then join the rest of our funeral-goers for a nice meal.
Micah's father had offered to drive us and we graciously accepted. None of us were in a good enough condition to drive today. When the final person had made their way out of the church, I followed Micah to his father's Chevy Suburban at the curb. He first opened the passenger door for Paris and then the back door for me. I climbed all the way into the back and Micah followed close behind. My sister and brother as well as Micah's brother slide into the middle of the car.
Aires leaned into her boyfriend, Daniel Stevens – the adopted Stevens brother – as the car headed to the cemetery. Paris's boyfriend, Drew Jr. was waiting for us at the cemetery and he led us to the grave sites where the caskets were waiting to be lowered into the ground. The caskets were of a fine mahogany colored wood and covered in our mother's favorite flowers, pink carnations. She always said that anything more expensive than carnations were crap. She was just as happy to get carnations as roses, and they were a lot cheaper. Dad usually bought her a bouquet once a week and they were always pink carnations that she would rave about each and every week.
"Please take your final flowers," the undertaker told us quietly. Slowly, my sisters and I gathered the flowers and held them close to us despite our black clothing. We mumbled a final prayer together and let the undertaker lower the caskets.
The Stevens' boys had their arms around us girls as we wept and Mr. Stevens graciously wrapped an arm around Dallas's shoulder. We were left alone as just the seven of us and our final tears of the day were shed.
My last memory of the day is my first kiss, a thoughtless kiss of comfort from Micah. It was quick, simple, and amazing. And the rest of my day became a blur.
