Eulogy by Daniel R. Snyder

(Editors’ note: Happy Easter to everyone.  And we thank Daniel for forgiving us (me) for misplacing his accepted story, which we are pleased to run today–LA)

The funeral is held in a large generation-spanning cemetery, with manicured lawns and polished granite headstones for the average, marble for the more-than-so, and pieces of nondescript rock hastily and carelessly inscribed for those who thought someone important enough for a marker, but not enough to break the bank.

…Welcome, my friends…

Jason rests peacefully in a lacquered white coffin, more ornate and of better quality than his mother can afford, and yet not as much as she feels he deserves. There is no smile on his face, and even as the mortician tried with his hands, and his family with their imaginations, they could not erase the scowl. It is the face of an eighteen year old boy who, due to circumstances he believed were beyond his control, will now be eighteen forever. A twenty-two rifle, placed in the mouth, can do that.

…There are no words, my beloved friends, to express the sorrow we feel as we say goodbye to a loved one…

His mother sits on one of the metal folding chairs lined in neat rows, the front for the immediate family and the back for friends, testing the volume of tears a tissue is capable of absorbing, as is fitting a woman grieving the loss of her son, and she looks down to the opposite end of the row of chairs, sees Jason’s father, and hates.

Jason’s father, sitting with the respectable amount of tears a man is allowed at such an occasion, looks at Jason’s mother and does not hate. He does not judge, nor condemn, but merely pities the boy for being subjected to a convoluted and archaic legal system that decided Jason was better off with his mother, despite the fact that his mother never loved any man whose face was not on a dollar bill, spoiled him rotten, made him incapable of dealing with life, and mostly, of paramount importance, was not Catholic. It would have made all the difference.

Jason’s sister now spends a larger block of her valuable time with her brother than she has in the last four years. She feels guilty about that, the unavoidable necessity of doing God’s work, being the good Christian, never good enough of course, and she apologizes for that every night on her hands and knees with her hands clasped together. She didn’t cry when she heard the news. She didn’t cry at the viewing, and she didn’t cry all the way to the cemetery. She is frightened by the joy she feels for Jason, being in that better place. She has a weak spot in her faith that allows it to bend without breaking, where she is able to convince herself that her sinful brother is in Heaven, and it comforts her like an opiate.

…Being merely human, and faulted with only human comprehension, we cannot help but be puzzled by the death of one so young. And yet, we must not question the wisdom of our Heavenly Father…

If I had only lived closer to him, his father thinks, I could have helped. I could have raised him right. He thinks this without the least sense of guilt, since it was not his fault they had gotten divorced, and not his fault the courts had not granted him custody in their paucity of moral wisdom and responsibility. The world is full of stupid people. That is not a judgment, he is careful to remind himself, since that is the Lord’s job, and far be it from me to cast the first stone. It is a simple observation.

…Let us remember in hour of sorrow that we are told by the Heavenly Father that the dead in Christ shall rise again after the Tribulation and live with him forever…

His mother takes another tissue from the small black purse resting on her black clad lap, and wonders if maybe she made a mistake. Perhaps she should not have had children, or perhaps having had them, she should not have been entrusted to raise them, to bring them to the full responsibility of adulthood so they could become religious fanatics like her daughter, or decide to take a silly little twenty-two rifle that shouldn’t be able to hurt anything larger than a squirrel and kill himself. That was the reward you received for giving into the old mating-birthing instinct. Be fruitful and multiply, like maggots in rotten fruit. What the hell did you expect Jason? I was too busy to date and never found you another father. Not that you ever really had one in the first place, and so I worked to give you the good life and bought you everything you ever wanted or needed and made excuses for you when you didn’t want to do something, like go to school, and I gave you everything I had to give and this is what you do to thank me you ungrateful-bastard-son-of-a-bitch-just-like-your-fucking-father little idiot.

…It is not good, although often difficult to avoid, but we must try not to think overmuch on what in the future is lost. Rather, let us remember that which Jason gave us, the special joy we shared, the wonderful memories we will carry of him forever…

Look at her making a spectacle of herself, his father thinks. As if having a breakdown at the funeral will atone for all the sins she bestowed on my boy, who I had not spoken with for more than a minute or two over the last five years, justifiable, since he was so nasty to me and expected me to sympathize with him, and when I didn’t, called me an asshole and hung up. Or I did, but can you blame me? Of course not. I was always willing to talk but he never listened. Not once in his life did he listen. So what can you do?

…It is often hard at these times, but we must try to avoid blaming ourselves. Jason was an intelligent boy and he made his choices, as we all do…

If my parents hadn’t gotten divorced, his sister thinks, then maybe he would have been all right. If he had gone to church with me like I wanted him to. Not that Catholic stuff dad always preached. And then mom, the atheist-­-two opposite sides of the same worthless coin. Let them all go to hell. I tried to talk sense into every one of them and they were all so bull headed and thought that they were right all the time. If they would only have gone to church with me. Poor Jason, so afraid to live and too stupid to realize that death might be worse because he wasn’t Born-Again. I don’t think God will punish him for bad upbringing. Jason is in Heaven now, but if he’s not, it’s not my fault, and I’m not going to feel guilty about it, and it’s not my job to drag them into church. Mom’s mascara is running down her cheeks. She looks like a hooker and it’s embarrassing to be seen even sitting by her. The least she should do is fasten another button or two on her blouse so when she sits, the world doesn’t get to see that trampy black lace bra.

…It is good to see all of you here, to show your love for Jason, and support for his family. Help them as best you can, in this, their hour of need…

Jason’s mother blows her nose into another of the uncounted tissues and finds that she is no longer sad. She is angry with his father for being so inattentive and not trying to help. If it’s anybody’s fault, it’s his. I did the best that I could.

…Let us now…

Jason’s father sits comfortably, knowing there was nothing he could do for Jason when he was alive, but now he can do something, which is make sure Jason gets Last Rites, and go home and pray and pray and pray and get priests to pray until God takes mercy on Jason’s soul and lets him into Heaven. I did not fail as a father. He failed as a son, and his mother failed us both.

…Bow our heads…

I did everything I could, his sister thinks, and there was nothing I could do to help him because he wasn’t willing to help himself. I offered to take him to church. If mom and dad hadn’t always been at each other’s throats. If we could have all gone to church as a family.

…In silent prayer…

And so the sermon ends and the prayer is indeed silent. The white lid is closed and the few guests in attendance quickly file away. For a long while, Jason’s mother, father, and sister simply stare at each other, uncertain of what to do next, and then slowly come together and embrace. They do not meet each other’s eyes, nor do they speak, but merely hold each other, finding comfort not in the embrace of family, but in knowing there is someone else to blame.

Daniel R. Snyder

Image: A white coffin in the back of a hearse from Pixabay.com