We Don’t Have One That Small

Sadee and John attend Shawn's funeral

Transcript

At Shawn’s funeral our friends and family members, some of them, cried inconsolably, but Sadee and I both just stared numbly and implacably down at the ground while we sometimes led the procession, and sometimes had to be held by the elbow and directed into the church. I remember that some people said some things to me, but I don’t know who any more and have only a weak retention of what their words were.

I do remember that for seconds that seemed like eons, Sadee looked up at me once, and said, “No.” And then slackened her hold on my arm and resumed her looking down.

I have only fireworks of flashes of what others said. Something about loss. Something about sorry. Something about being here for you. Some people just saying John or Sadee. I do remember one, actually, and I hope that the anger that the memory now wrests and still dredges up in me was not expressed. “Didn’t die in vain,” she said, in part, and I thought, What in the fuck are you talking about? Not in vain? Has there been some grand shift and realization among the rest of us remaining on this fucking planet that you shouldn’t turn your attention away for ten seconds while a 2-year-old is anywhere near a pool? And I don’t care about other children. Even if there are a billion of them who are saved by this lesson, careful and attentive parents adjusting their vigilance, do you think I give a flying fuck about kids who are still alive while mine is not?

Sadee and I sat in the front pew, the one where at some other time I could move my legs around and be comfortable, but now I was frozen as if I were dead myself. Rigor mortis while sitting up primly, and just waiting for someone to tip me over and everyone could see me breaking into a hundred bits. The minister talked for some length of time, I can’t remember any more, but when I did look up now and then I could only see lips moving and I couldn’t focus on him. There was a casket just steps away from me, lid closed, suffocating. It was too long because of “inventory issues,” as the guy at the funeral home put it.

“Inventory issues?”

“Well, sir, we just don’t have anything, anything, well, in stock, available right now, that would be a suitable size, the regular size, for your loved one.”

“My son,” I say.

“Yes, sir, your son.”

“So what do you have?”

“It’s something suitable for a child about eight or ten,” he says.

I want to picture what Shawn will look like inside, and so I just ask him how much extra leg room there will be at the bottom.

“About two feet, sir. Perhaps seven hundred and fifty centimetres.”

It makes me angry but I stay in control. It feels as though he will have to be wearing clown shoes in order for this particular casket to be suitable.

“Some parents,” he interjects, “some parents choose to use the additional space for cherished objects, such as special toys. Or a blanket. Perhaps you can see what I mean.”

I can. I could. I did. And now I pulled my eyes away from the casket just as the minister was saying his final words, and I looked down at the floor, and then over to Sadee, crying now, and I put my arm around her and she fell softly onto me.

I hated the logistics of getting to the gravesite. Again I did not sense time. But I felt like I was on a cosmic production line, well, reduction line, and the practicality of it all depressed me and emptied me out. Sadee spoke up as we were being driven.

“J-, John, I can’t believe any of this.”

I found it hard to give her solace because I agreed with her.

I separated myself from her on the seat so that I could look her directly in the eyes. They were reddened and she had worn no makeup. Her face seemed caved in in some way, pummelled. The quintessence of sadness.

“Sadee, my love, honey, my dear. Sadee. All I can say is that we should try to be quiet during this whole thing. Let’s stay invisible. People will say even more things to us, but just keep your head down. I’ll take care of you when we are home and by ourselves.” I thought about that for a moment. “You know, I mean, so we can talk. Or just lie down in peace.”

“Yes” is all she said. And we did make it through this thing like stoics. When the time came for us to throw dirt on the descending life, she remembered what she had put in her clutch, and opened that, and threw sand from our garden where Shawn used to play. She came back from the edge and looked to me as if to be reassured that she had done good. I nodded at her and pulled her body into mine, her face now at my chest resting on a black jacket.

Other things happened after that. I do remember some of them but they hold no importance for me. At some point, someone, and that I can’t even remember, drove us home and we unlocked the door for the first time with no Shawn in it.