Tasi Ana Sanchez
WoB Short Story Contest Submission 9/11/24
What Do You Bury with a Dead Child?
“The father of the deceased would now like to address the crowd,” the minister announces before offering a generous smile in my direction.
Grief and sorrow weigh heavy on my heart, making the task of rising from my chair onerous. For a moment I consider waving the minister on, passing up the opportunity to speak, but I would never forgive myself. The option still taunts me, seeming more and more desirable as the room fills with silence and tension.
I helplessly turn to the man stepping down from the podium, briefly catching the glare of my child's mother The fire in her eyes ignites a spark within me I didn't know I had, and I rise with adrenaline suddenly coursing through every vein in my body I feel my presence gather the attention of more and more people, each who have made the tragedy of my child's death their own. They have tears in their eyes, on their faces and hands, running down their cheeks, and catching on wrinkles that didn't have the chance to form on the face of my child. No, the youth of the child will remain forever on his body, never getting the chance to fade or wilt. Never in my life did I think I could find beauty in aging.
I make my way to the podium slowly but deliberately, climb the stairs towards the casket, and turn sharply, orienting myself to face the crowd.
"I am Jabez, and Ajal-" my throat catches. "Ajal was my son."
Was.
"I'm standing here on this podium with hundreds of eyes on me. Eyes which, for unknown reasons, I cannot say I've met before.”
Already I can sense the jitters leave my hands and I feel the anxiety leave with every word I say. He would want this I think to myself to ease the tension. “Since the day Ajal was born, I have felt like a stranger forcing my way into his life. A glorified friend at most. I will not let myself be treated this way anymore, starting with this speech."
I’ve now caught the attention of those who doubted me in the past. His mother, her family, the eyes of the strangers who fill the room. There was no plan to anything I was saying, which in a way, terrified me. I was never good at giving speeches in school, but the advice I was offered was the typical 'find someone you know and speak only to them'. So I turned to face my son.
It bothers me that death is often portrayed as endless sleep. Sleeping children's chests rise, their cheeks are rosy with blood, soft snores leave their mouths. The beauty of death I often find in the books and movies is nowhere to be found here, I see only the pain from his last moments.
Next to the body is a second casket shaped bin, holding items from the funeral guests. Gifts from the strangers who surround me.
"Standing here before you, Ajal, I am reminded of the first time in 6 years that your mother contacted me. She wanted to know what I wanted to be buried with your body. When I told her, 'nothing', she did not stop to ask why, she did not bother wondering if maybe this was hard on me as it is for her. She only ridiculed me and publicly shamed me for being a bad father."
The words are still getting caught in my throat but my brain is running more smoothly than before, the speech freely falling from my lips after a few moments. I turn to my audience.
"What do you bury with a dead child?" I ask the crowd, really only asking myself. "Do you choose a toy from his past, a belonging or tool they often used, something that he'll never have the joys of touching again? Do you choose a picture? A picture from a past he can't ever grow to reminisce of–a reminder of the face he was buried wearing? You could give him a family heirloom he'll never have gotten to receive, and can now never pass on, you could give him a book he was too young to read, a letter wishing him
peace, or any number of useless things to help yourself cope with the idea of his passing except it's not hypothetical. It's not an idea. It's real, and it's now." I turned to my boy. "I have not cried yet Ajal. I have not felt guilty. I have not gotten upset. I have not chosen a gift, and for these, I apologize. I have not felt in such a long while that I sometimes forget what it's like to feel. Standing here now, I want nothing less than to wake up from this nightmare to hear your giggles from down the hall as you scribble on the walls in Sharpie, where nothing is wrong and you'll go to school and graduate and go to college, start a family, make me a grandfather. I want to go back to when you cried in my arms before your first day of school, when I had to leave work because you were sick, when I had to lay awake night after night because you kept waking up in your sleep. I want to go back to the times you cried when you had to leave me. I keep thinking these days will come and I know they never will, but denial is a pretty place to live. With tears in your eyes you begged me to stay and now with tears in my eyes I beg you to come back. I guess we both begged for no good reason."
I turn back to the hundreds of eyes, now darting away in discomfort.
“I stand here today and I am reminded of the last time I considered death to be peaceful, but peaceful only when it’s time. Maybe there’s never a right time, but there are definitely wrong ones. I don’t know what comes after, whether there is something or nothing at all. What I believe is that we all deserve some sort of peace and resolution to the times that could never provide these feelings. So, today, I stand here before you and I am opening my heart to forgiveness in the name of Ajal. Thank you all for attending.”
I smile, bow, exit the stage, and return to my seat. This time, I glance at Ajal's mother and find home in her gaze, a task I previously considered myself too proud to do ever again.