"What They Didn't Say"
They didn’t talk about what mattered at the funeral.
The weather was dreary outside, like you’d expect from a movie. Like what you’d expect from a typical day in late December. The last day of December, actually. Only five days after a person who’d been a permanent fixture of my life had left it forever.
They talked a lot about his ministry. My grandfather had been a pastor and church builder. He’d traveled the United States, living in a hundred different places and meeting a hundred different people. I’d been hearing about his ministry for years. It was something that mattered to him.
But funerals aren’t supposed to be for the deceased. Funerals are solemn events to honor them, yes, but they’re more for the benefit of the people who are left behind. They are our way of screaming the question that burns in all our minds now that he’s gone: what do we do now?
As I sat in the pew, feet aching from the flats my mother had forced me into, I listened as series of old men stood up one by one and told the same story over and over.
He traveled. He met people. He started churches.
But what did it matter to me? It was just the same words I’d been hearing all my life. Why did they only speak of that one side of him? Why did they refuse to acknowledge every other part that turned a figure of potential hero-worship into a human?
What they didn’t say was that he always kept ice cream in stock even though he was hypoglycemic. We would go to his house almost every Saturday and he would dish out a bowl of ice cream for everyone, whether they said they wanted one or not. We’d eat it anyway.
He had a mechanical ice cream scoop that never seemed to work right. He would start out with the mechanical one, trying to make it work because he had bought it, before switching to the regular one. When my mother eventually took up the position of ice cream server, she would try and use the mechanical scoop and he would stand nearby with a spoon to do the work that the mechanism should’ve done.
They didn’t say that he sometimes forgot to shave and you’d kiss him on the cheek but it would be all scratchy. They didn’t say that he wore shoes even in his own home or that he was always wearing sweater vests with buttons up the front. They didn’t say that he had tinnitus, or that he sometimes got the names of my younger siblings and cousins wrong.
No one mentioned the barrel of Lincoln Logs that sat in the corner of his living room for years, just for my siblings and I to play with. He would leave our cities sprawled across his floor when we had to leave, and they would be there when we returned.
No one said that he was often irritable and had a tendency toward favoritism.
There are so many things that went unremembered when we gathered to remember him. So many things that went unsaid.
But I didn’t say them either. Perhaps because I feared criticism, or perhaps because I felt that someone else should say them, or perhaps because I was seated beside an aunt I didn’t know very well and so felt uncomfortable around.
Whatever the reason, I didn’t say what I should have said. I am as much at fault for the things that I believe should’ve been remembered as all the other family members and friends who sat in silence.
“To regret what was left unsaid is to be a coward, and to regret what was said is to be an idiot. But to regret what was said with sincerity is to be utterly without hope.” —Anonymous
The little things that went unspoken were the man I knew and loved. I can’t return to that gathering of family and friends, and I refuse to dwell on that fact. Instead, I turn to the future with the resolution that I will say what needs to be said, even as my knees knock against each other.
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"Small Arms Fire"
"Something you will never know the value of is a moment. Until it becomes a memory."
-Dr. Seuss
One of my most bittersweet memories is being with my dad at his dad's farm. I was never close with my dad or his dad but we shared an interest in guns. For as long as I remember I was raised around guns, paintball, Nerf, airsoft and BB guns. My family weren't hunters by any means. The occasional bird was all the casualties that arose from our shooting. I was probably about seven to eight, it’s a bit hazy. At that age I didn't understand I was, in fact, not invincible. I thought nothing could hurt me and I was the coolest person ever. My father, being the man he is, decided to give little me a dose of reality and to kick my dignity and ego in the teeth. He took me to the farm, off Millcreek Road in Hot Springs, Arkansas. The farm was decently large, used for training thoroughbred horses to race at Oaklawn, the local casino and horse racing track. This relatively small town in known for this race track, being one of the major reasons people visit it.
My grandfather on my dad's side has had a multiple strokes and shakes too much to be safe around a gun. But, he still wanted to see his grandson shoot. He waddled over to the pasture where we were shooting, carrying a large and very old shotgun. This twelve gauge shotgun has been in the family since WWI. It is still in the family to this day. My dad smiled almost evilly and took the monster of a gun. My naïve little brain thought, "Oh wow! A new gun to shoot!" I hurriedly set down the small .22 rifle and smiled brightly.
"Dad, can I shoot it?" I really wanted to shoot it. My dad smiled, trying not to giggle.
"Sure, son, but be careful. This one is going to be more... interesting." I should have thought about why he hesitated, but, again, I was naïve. I hurriedly grabbed the shotgun, which was as big as me. My dad quickly showed me where the shells go in, and about why it’s called a twelve gauge.
"A gauge is an old measurement. It means how many balls of lead, made from one pound of lead, can fit in the barrel. This one holds twelve." My dad is crazy about guns. He seems to know about every gun I ask him about, from video games or real life. It still shocks me to this day. I nodded, not understanding a word and really not caring. He handed me the loaded gun and told me to aim at that can. We used old cans, before we took them to be recycled. I struggled to aim it and finally got my hand steady enough. I squeezed the trigger and heard the loud boom. It felt like I was kicked by a horse, which I have been. I went flying backwards, the gun lying about four feet In front of me. My dad and grandfather were laughing like I'd never seen. I groaned and rubbed my already bruising shoulder. My dad finally composed himself and grinned.
"I told you it would be interesting."
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"Autumn Rain"
I rest my eyes, the space around my small body filled with temporary silence. Soon, however, a yell… And then another, filled the room, one by one ticking off like ticks on a clock, the noises coming from the mouths of the two began to seemingly form into one, as each grew louder. Followed by glass abruptly shattering into the hardwood flooring, sending shards into every direction. These were the nights where I would form a fort under my covers, trying to hide and disappear, almost as if creating a home of my own, where feeling safe wasn’t a feeling I had to savor whenever the chance became present. My mother would come rushing in, calling my name. "We're leaving," she would say… And we left. Although our departure from the awful place we called "home" was only ever ‘til the rise of the morning sun, I still remember the sensations of excitement and dread heaving in my soul and coursing through my veins.
It was on an autumn afternoon, the skies looked as if ashes had been scattered across the heavens, and on the way home all I could think was, “Why is he so mean? Does he not love me?” A tear began to slowly slide down my pale porcelain cheek as the wind began to pick up, causing the surrounding leaves on the pavement in front of my feet to disband. I stepped into the door of the house, the walls seemingly darker than what I’ve ever remembered, as if they were painted with the emotions of regret and remorse, chipping away... I walked slowly into the kitchen before me; vague sounds of hollow sobs filled my ears. I began to trek to the back of the house, the cries of distraught growing louder with each step I took. I gradually came to a halt behind the dingy door frame that led to the room where the noise was most present, only to see my mother hurled over, her head buried in her hands, while her body convulsed and trembled violently with each weep she let escape from within herself. I hurried over to her and flung my arms around her figure, squeezing her as tightly as my dainty hands would allow me. She lovingly returned the embrace, and as her cries began to slowly subside, my chin quivered desperately in the attempt to hold back the tears, trying to retain the flood of agony inside my heart. She caressed my hair down my back, cooing to me quietly, "We're leaving dear... We're leaving for good, we won't be coming back, I promise we're safe now." I heard these words fall from her mouth and couldn’t help but wonder if they held even the slightest bit of truth. I nodded my head in silence, agreeing with her statement physically, yet I somehow felt as if there was a wall of sickening contradiction that guarded my heart. She gathered me into her loving arms, holding me closely to her chest. The beats of her heart found their way to my ears, and for the first time I could ever recall, I felt a delicate sensation drift through my body, a sensation unknown to the senses I've ever managed to experience. She rose to her feet, holding my small figure close to her. We ventured to the garage; every step she took seemed to echo off the walls, as if every corner of the house was whispering a joyful goodbye. She placed me onto the frigid leather seat; I feel a chill jolt into my body as I waited for her to cross and take her place in the seat next to mine. I felt the engine shudder beneath me, and as we began to steer away, I gazed at what I was once more than thrilled to call my home. We began to move down the highway, my vision caught by the street-lights. They seemed to illuminate the sky effortlessly. I glanced over at my mother who gave a genuine smile, and for once, I finally felt like everything was okay.
"I wish that I could let the world know, that it's okay to let the pain show, and even though times seem bad, it always rains before the rainbow." - Colson Baker
"What They Didn't Say"
They didn’t talk about what mattered at the funeral.
The weather was dreary outside, like you’d expect from a movie. Like what you’d expect from a typical day in late December. The last day of December, actually. Only five days after a person who’d been a permanent fixture of my life had left it forever.
They talked a lot about his ministry. My grandfather had been a pastor and church builder. He’d traveled the United States, living in a hundred different places and meeting a hundred different people. I’d been hearing about his ministry for years. It was something that mattered to him.
But funerals aren’t supposed to be for the deceased. Funerals are solemn events to honor them, yes, but they’re more for the benefit of the people who are left behind. They are our way of screaming the question that burns in all our minds now that he’s gone: what do we do now?
As I sat in the pew, feet aching from the flats my mother had forced me into, I listened as series of old men stood up one by one and told the same story over and over.
He traveled. He met people. He started churches.
But what did it matter to me? It was just the same words I’d been hearing all my life. Why did they only speak of that one side of him? Why did they refuse to acknowledge every other part that turned a figure of potential hero-worship into a human?
What they didn’t say was that he always kept ice cream in stock even though he was hypoglycemic. We would go to his house almost every Saturday and he would dish out a bowl of ice cream for everyone, whether they said they wanted one or not. We’d eat it anyway.
He had a mechanical ice cream scoop that never seemed to work right. He would start out with the mechanical one, trying to make it work because he had bought it, before switching to the regular one. When my mother eventually took up the position of ice cream server, she would try and use the mechanical scoop and he would stand nearby with a spoon to do the work that the mechanism should’ve done.
They didn’t say that he sometimes forgot to shave and you’d kiss him on the cheek but it would be all scratchy. They didn’t say that he wore shoes even in his own home or that he was always wearing sweater vests with buttons up the front. They didn’t say that he had tinnitus, or that he sometimes got the names of my younger siblings and cousins wrong.
No one mentioned the barrel of Lincoln Logs that sat in the corner of his living room for years, just for my siblings and I to play with. He would leave our cities sprawled across his floor when we had to leave, and they would be there when we returned.
No one said that he was often irritable and had a tendency toward favoritism.
There are so many things that went unremembered when we gathered to remember him. So many things that went unsaid.
But I didn’t say them either. Perhaps because I feared criticism, or perhaps because I felt that someone else should say them, or perhaps because I was seated beside an aunt I didn’t know very well and so felt uncomfortable around.
Whatever the reason, I didn’t say what I should have said. I am as much at fault for the things that I believe should’ve been remembered as all the other family members and friends who sat in silence.
“To regret what was left unsaid is to be a coward, and to regret what was said is to be an idiot. But to regret what was said with sincerity is to be utterly without hope.” —Anonymous
The little things that went unspoken were the man I knew and loved. I can’t return to that gathering of family and friends, and I refuse to dwell on that fact. Instead, I turn to the future with the resolution that I will say what needs to be said, even as my knees knock against each other.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Small Arms Fire"
"Something you will never know the value of is a moment. Until it becomes a memory."
-Dr. Seuss
One of my most bittersweet memories is being with my dad at his dad's farm. I was never close with my dad or his dad but we shared an interest in guns. For as long as I remember I was raised around guns, paintball, Nerf, airsoft and BB guns. My family weren't hunters by any means. The occasional bird was all the casualties that arose from our shooting. I was probably about seven to eight, it’s a bit hazy. At that age I didn't understand I was, in fact, not invincible. I thought nothing could hurt me and I was the coolest person ever. My father, being the man he is, decided to give little me a dose of reality and to kick my dignity and ego in the teeth. He took me to the farm, off Millcreek Road in Hot Springs, Arkansas. The farm was decently large, used for training thoroughbred horses to race at Oaklawn, the local casino and horse racing track. This relatively small town in known for this race track, being one of the major reasons people visit it.
My grandfather on my dad's side has had a multiple strokes and shakes too much to be safe around a gun. But, he still wanted to see his grandson shoot. He waddled over to the pasture where we were shooting, carrying a large and very old shotgun. This twelve gauge shotgun has been in the family since WWI. It is still in the family to this day. My dad smiled almost evilly and took the monster of a gun. My naïve little brain thought, "Oh wow! A new gun to shoot!" I hurriedly set down the small .22 rifle and smiled brightly.
"Dad, can I shoot it?" I really wanted to shoot it. My dad smiled, trying not to giggle.
"Sure, son, but be careful. This one is going to be more... interesting." I should have thought about why he hesitated, but, again, I was naïve. I hurriedly grabbed the shotgun, which was as big as me. My dad quickly showed me where the shells go in, and about why it’s called a twelve gauge.
"A gauge is an old measurement. It means how many balls of lead, made from one pound of lead, can fit in the barrel. This one holds twelve." My dad is crazy about guns. He seems to know about every gun I ask him about, from video games or real life. It still shocks me to this day. I nodded, not understanding a word and really not caring. He handed me the loaded gun and told me to aim at that can. We used old cans, before we took them to be recycled. I struggled to aim it and finally got my hand steady enough. I squeezed the trigger and heard the loud boom. It felt like I was kicked by a horse, which I have been. I went flying backwards, the gun lying about four feet In front of me. My dad and grandfather were laughing like I'd never seen. I groaned and rubbed my already bruising shoulder. My dad finally composed himself and grinned.
"I told you it would be interesting."
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"Autumn Rain"
I rest my eyes, the space around my small body filled with temporary silence. Soon, however, a yell… And then another, filled the room, one by one ticking off like ticks on a clock, the noises coming from the mouths of the two began to seemingly form into one, as each grew louder. Followed by glass abruptly shattering into the hardwood flooring, sending shards into every direction. These were the nights where I would form a fort under my covers, trying to hide and disappear, almost as if creating a home of my own, where feeling safe wasn’t a feeling I had to savor whenever the chance became present. My mother would come rushing in, calling my name. "We're leaving," she would say… And we left. Although our departure from the awful place we called "home" was only ever ‘til the rise of the morning sun, I still remember the sensations of excitement and dread heaving in my soul and coursing through my veins.
It was on an autumn afternoon, the skies looked as if ashes had been scattered across the heavens, and on the way home all I could think was, “Why is he so mean? Does he not love me?” A tear began to slowly slide down my pale porcelain cheek as the wind began to pick up, causing the surrounding leaves on the pavement in front of my feet to disband. I stepped into the door of the house, the walls seemingly darker than what I’ve ever remembered, as if they were painted with the emotions of regret and remorse, chipping away... I walked slowly into the kitchen before me; vague sounds of hollow sobs filled my ears. I began to trek to the back of the house, the cries of distraught growing louder with each step I took. I gradually came to a halt behind the dingy door frame that led to the room where the noise was most present, only to see my mother hurled over, her head buried in her hands, while her body convulsed and trembled violently with each weep she let escape from within herself. I hurried over to her and flung my arms around her figure, squeezing her as tightly as my dainty hands would allow me. She lovingly returned the embrace, and as her cries began to slowly subside, my chin quivered desperately in the attempt to hold back the tears, trying to retain the flood of agony inside my heart. She caressed my hair down my back, cooing to me quietly, "We're leaving dear... We're leaving for good, we won't be coming back, I promise we're safe now." I heard these words fall from her mouth and couldn’t help but wonder if they held even the slightest bit of truth. I nodded my head in silence, agreeing with her statement physically, yet I somehow felt as if there was a wall of sickening contradiction that guarded my heart. She gathered me into her loving arms, holding me closely to her chest. The beats of her heart found their way to my ears, and for the first time I could ever recall, I felt a delicate sensation drift through my body, a sensation unknown to the senses I've ever managed to experience. She rose to her feet, holding my small figure close to her. We ventured to the garage; every step she took seemed to echo off the walls, as if every corner of the house was whispering a joyful goodbye. She placed me onto the frigid leather seat; I feel a chill jolt into my body as I waited for her to cross and take her place in the seat next to mine. I felt the engine shudder beneath me, and as we began to steer away, I gazed at what I was once more than thrilled to call my home. We began to move down the highway, my vision caught by the street-lights. They seemed to illuminate the sky effortlessly. I glanced over at my mother who gave a genuine smile, and for once, I finally felt like everything was okay.
"I wish that I could let the world know, that it's okay to let the pain show, and even though times seem bad, it always rains before the rainbow." - Colson Baker