October Ellie Wellington ‘21

OCTOBER

Ellie Wellington

I saw my brother Oliver for the rst time in two years at my Uncle Dan’s funeral. It was the middle of fall, brisk and windy. I drove up with my mother and father. Oliver ew in and met us there. He shook my father’s hand when he saw him. Funeral homes feel pretty disconnected from reality already, but this one was almost in another dimension. It was built in the seventies and clearly hadn’t been touched since, decorated in tragic yellows and light pinks and greens. e home’s location being a suburb of Columbus didn’t really help ground it. In a way, it was the perfect place for my family to convene: cold, idle, and out of touch. Oliver had been at college in New York all this time; instead of coming home during the summer, he would mess around with his friends in Miami. When he saw me at the funeral, he simply nodded at me, as if he’d just seen me the night before. My stupid brother. Maybe other siblings have that relationship, where they can go a long time without seeing each other and nothing about their bond will change, but Ollie and I didn’t have a relationship to begin with, so of course we couldn’t communicate lovingly or even give each other a hug at a funeral. My parents and Oliver left me on my own in there. I wandered through the lobby, catching little pieces of my relatives’ conversations. Most of them were mourning Dan, which was funny because I didn’t remember them caring about him so much while he was alive. I hate that dance we do when someone dies. I hate that “respect for the dead” idea; it’s so fake and insincere. If you hated someone when they were alive, say it. Don’t suddenly switch up and say you loved them; it’s cruel to express newfound good feelings for someone who can’t receive them. I knew then that if any of the people in this funeral home died, I wouldn’t cry. I can’t pretend to love someone I never loved. I wondered if Ollie felt the same way. I wondered if that’s why we were never close. I can still see my re ection in the casket if I think hard enough. I had walked up to it before the service to say my nal goodbyes or something. I had bright blue hair then; it was short and curly, and completely dried out from all the dye. I had had my friend, Rose, cut a few inches o the day before, and she had actually done a pretty good job. I wanted someone to notice. Deep down, I wanted Ollie to see me and know how much I’d changed, and how much I didn’t need him and how I didn’t miss him at all while he was gone. He didn’t; he barely looked up from the oor. I wanted Rose to come here with me. She wanted to come too, but my father said no, so I got stuck in Ohio with my dead uncle and icy family, alone. I thought to myself that I looked pretty. A strange thought to have at a funeral, but I know Dan would’ve told me the same. He always loved my hair. ere was a reception afterwards, with catered food and fancy desserts. By that point everyone had dropped the act, seemingly forgetting that we were here because a man had died. My parents were still nowhere to be found, and Oliver was hanging around me awkwardly. I thought he would be silent the whole time, refusing to acknowledge his little sister. Instead, he brought us both glasses of ice water and said he was sorry. I asked him for what, because a broad apology isn’t an apology at all, and he said nothing, that he was just sorry, staring down at the glass like he might nd something magical if he just looked hard enough. I knew what he was apologizing for, of course. I knew somewhere deep inside he must have felt some guilt for abandoning me. I just wanted to hear him admit it. at always pissed me o about Ollie. He always had something to say, but he refused to say it most of the time. I never understood why. He was the clear favorite of our parents; maybe he stayed quiet to seem obedient and please them. I was never like that, which I suppose is why we fought so much. I’ve never been afraid to say what’s on my mind. Oliver drove us home that night. My mom was drunk o champagne, and my dad couldn’t be bothered to get in the front seat and drive us away. We stuck them both in the back and spent the next two hours in complete silence, watching the light from the sunset spread over the streets of Ohio. I told him I hated winter. He asked me why, and I told him straight up: because it’s cold, and everything dies, and the world feels so lifeless and dark. He told me he hated it too. ere was something in the way his deep brown eyes were illuminated in the fading daylight just then that made me smile.