You don’t expect it, but when you walk into the house, the grief is tangible.
Go back in time three minutes. You’re greeting Her sister, your aunt. She’s outside of the house, small, her shoulders hunched. The house looms in all its countryside glory. You immediately wish you’d come here before. She hugs you and your parents. When she hugs your sister, though, she starts sobbing. You realize grief works in ebbs and flows: always there, sometimes stronger, sometimes not. A group hug commences, and then you walk inside.
When you enter, you see people huddled in the big, yet still cramped, kitchen, hugging, crying. Her mother walks up to you and wraps her arms around your waist. She’s a short woman, much shorter than you, but her hug is strong. Small talk begins, people’s lives being told. “I haven’t seen you in so long!” and “I wish we were here under better circumstances” circulate. After a little bit, you’re led into a small, cozy room with armchairs and a couch. There’s an unlit fireplace that Her mother has asked your dad to light. The room is what home should be.
Four days earlier your mother got a phone call. She started crying soon after the phone call ended, and so you comforted her.
“What happened?” you asked.
“She died,” she whispered. It was sudden, the death. They think it was an overdose. She was only 37. “She was in a lot of pain.”
And though you’d never met Her, the idea of suicide chilled your bones.
Back in the homey room. Your dad has lit the fire, and your family is sitting quietly. Your parents thank you for being so supportive, and you say it’s fine. Really, you keep imagining your sister on a bathroom floor, sprawled. Dead. You try to push it out, and it works for a while. You have to stay strong for Her — your — family.
More people arrive in the room, and conversation gets a little louder. The looming grief seems to fade a little; it almost seems like you’re at a normal family gathering. The old people share their stories, and the rest listen.
You all have dinner, a meal that reminds you of your grandma back in California. An old woman — whom you’re not related to, but feel like you could be — tells everyone about a formidable woman in Britain, the neighbor of Her family. The British woman was a Holocaust survivor, but was still going strong at an old age. She had everything in her small house in perfect order despite surviving only on her late husband’s pension. The old woman tells you all that if the woman invited you over, she expected you right on time, not a second late. Her sister chimes in, saying that she always had to rush across the city through the train system to get to her house on time.
Dinner ends, and grief edges a little closer to the room. Her sister is laughing, but it sounds canned. Her dad, who hasn’t talked much, is sitting in a chair, listening to Her sister talk about something or other.
Eventually your family goes back to the hotel, and you try to sleep, but the image of your sister keeps flashing forward. It’s always in the bathroom, sometimes bloody, sometimes pale, sometimes peaceful. All of it makes you want to curl up in a ball and sob until the images drain from your brain through your tears. But your sister is just across the room in the other bed. Safe. You remind yourself of that, but you don’t fall asleep until 1:00 a.m.
Your mother shakes you awake at 9:05 a.m. You have forty-five minutes until you have to be at the funeral home. You blearily wander around looking for nicer clothes.
When you arrive, there are a lot of people. A lot of new people. You follow your mother around, you and your sister little ducklings following their mama duck. When you find Her sister, you embrace her. She looks tired. Your mom and Her sister sit down in a room with flower-patterned couches and start talking. Her sister has started using sarcasm as a coping mechanism.
“She just had to irritate me one more time, you know? God,” she laughs, this time not canned. The laugh sounds more like it wished it didn’t exist.
You’re standing, listening, when the images come back, as they will for the entirety of this unexpected trip, and you want to fall down into a fetal position and scream. But you can’t. Your sister isn’t dead yet. She’s sitting right there, also listening. This isn’t your sister’s funeral, so you have no right to these emotions, you tell yourself.
You will come to realize, a few days after you go back home, that you were perfectly entitled to those emotions. But now, at the funeral, you keep a neutral face.
After the funeral, there’s a party of sorts. Games are played and food is eaten. The air feels celebratory, and then you remember the reason you’re here. You wonder whether Her family feels like this is a celebration. You stay at the house — the house that feels like home — late into the night, but the next morning, it’s time for you to go back to your real home.
Go back in time three minutes. You’re greeting Her sister, your aunt. She’s outside of the house, small, her shoulders hunched. The house looms in all its countryside glory. You immediately wish you’d come here before. She hugs you and your parents. When she hugs your sister, though, she starts sobbing. You realize grief works in ebbs and flows: always there, sometimes stronger, sometimes not. A group hug commences, and then you walk inside.
When you enter, you see people huddled in the big, yet still cramped, kitchen, hugging, crying. Her mother walks up to you and wraps her arms around your waist. She’s a short woman, much shorter than you, but her hug is strong. Small talk begins, people’s lives being told. “I haven’t seen you in so long!” and “I wish we were here under better circumstances” circulate. After a little bit, you’re led into a small, cozy room with armchairs and a couch. There’s an unlit fireplace that Her mother has asked your dad to light. The room is what home should be.
Four days earlier your mother got a phone call. She started crying soon after the phone call ended, and so you comforted her.
“What happened?” you asked.
“She died,” she whispered. It was sudden, the death. They think it was an overdose. She was only 37. “She was in a lot of pain.”
And though you’d never met Her, the idea of suicide chilled your bones.
Back in the homey room. Your dad has lit the fire, and your family is sitting quietly. Your parents thank you for being so supportive, and you say it’s fine. Really, you keep imagining your sister on a bathroom floor, sprawled. Dead. You try to push it out, and it works for a while. You have to stay strong for Her — your — family.
More people arrive in the room, and conversation gets a little louder. The looming grief seems to fade a little; it almost seems like you’re at a normal family gathering. The old people share their stories, and the rest listen.
You all have dinner, a meal that reminds you of your grandma back in California. An old woman — whom you’re not related to, but feel like you could be — tells everyone about a formidable woman in Britain, the neighbor of Her family. The British woman was a Holocaust survivor, but was still going strong at an old age. She had everything in her small house in perfect order despite surviving only on her late husband’s pension. The old woman tells you all that if the woman invited you over, she expected you right on time, not a second late. Her sister chimes in, saying that she always had to rush across the city through the train system to get to her house on time.
Dinner ends, and grief edges a little closer to the room. Her sister is laughing, but it sounds canned. Her dad, who hasn’t talked much, is sitting in a chair, listening to Her sister talk about something or other.
Eventually your family goes back to the hotel, and you try to sleep, but the image of your sister keeps flashing forward. It’s always in the bathroom, sometimes bloody, sometimes pale, sometimes peaceful. All of it makes you want to curl up in a ball and sob until the images drain from your brain through your tears. But your sister is just across the room in the other bed. Safe. You remind yourself of that, but you don’t fall asleep until 1:00 a.m.
Your mother shakes you awake at 9:05 a.m. You have forty-five minutes until you have to be at the funeral home. You blearily wander around looking for nicer clothes.
When you arrive, there are a lot of people. A lot of new people. You follow your mother around, you and your sister little ducklings following their mama duck. When you find Her sister, you embrace her. She looks tired. Your mom and Her sister sit down in a room with flower-patterned couches and start talking. Her sister has started using sarcasm as a coping mechanism.
“She just had to irritate me one more time, you know? God,” she laughs, this time not canned. The laugh sounds more like it wished it didn’t exist.
You’re standing, listening, when the images come back, as they will for the entirety of this unexpected trip, and you want to fall down into a fetal position and scream. But you can’t. Your sister isn’t dead yet. She’s sitting right there, also listening. This isn’t your sister’s funeral, so you have no right to these emotions, you tell yourself.
You will come to realize, a few days after you go back home, that you were perfectly entitled to those emotions. But now, at the funeral, you keep a neutral face.
After the funeral, there’s a party of sorts. Games are played and food is eaten. The air feels celebratory, and then you remember the reason you’re here. You wonder whether Her family feels like this is a celebration. You stay at the house — the house that feels like home — late into the night, but the next morning, it’s time for you to go back to your real home.