funeral lesson

i remember having gone to a funeral with my mother when i was rather young, well before my tenth birthday. we walked up to the casket and my mother leaned slightly to see what it was that remained of her memory of someone. i could not remember ever having met the man who previously occupied the body that was laid just slightly below eye level, palid and foreign. the experience, as innocent and natural as it was, turned to some kind of trauma in the moments between the funeral parlor and the boundary of my bedroom. as i tried to sleep that night floating on the surface of the waterbed, my little evening sea, the face of the stranger, with his eyes closed and skin the color of ghost, spun slowly in my waking and sleeping vision, each meeting the back of my eye-lids. to escape, i tried wedging myself between the hardside of the bed and the matress, completely under the protective shield of sheets, but in the end, the only thing that would remove the image from my head was the truth of soothing words, "nothing has happened, you will be fine honey."

.

i have had many sleepless nights since then, and many of those many have been over the past three weeks. i have tried to hide under the covers. i have searched for the words to be softly spoken close to my ears, to ease my fears and bring me to a good night's sleep. hiding beneath the covers hasn't helped; to face things so much more frightening than the face of the dead man, the covers and sheets must be ripped from the bed.

.

from an empty body to an empty seat.