A Eulogy for Us by Darleine Abellard

The funeral had been over for hours. The condolences had been murmured, hands shaken, and hollow nods exchanged. Tyler sat alone in the quiet living room, staring at the floor like the right combination of thoughts might finally break him open. However, he could only think about one thing: the clock on the wall ticked too loud. Each second landed sharp and mechanically like a hammer in the silence. The steady, unshaken rhythm, indifferent to the weight of grief pressing against Tyler’s ribs, was too precise for this raw moment. He tried to focus on each tick, breathing in and out on every other one. Time was moving forward, unaware that his best friend, Patrick Andrews, would never move with it again. 

Tyler sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees and hands clasped so tightly his knuckles had gone white. His gaze was focused on the clock. The worn, brown leather beneath him had softened due to years of Andrews’ family game nights, late-night conversations, and movie marathons — all including Tyler.  The couch felt foreign and cold now. Tasha, Patrick’s girlfriend, sat curled into the corner of a dark green armchair next to him. The coffee table in front of them was littered with half-empty glasses and abandoned plates. Someone bought food, probably because that’s what people did when they didn’t know what else to do. Neither of them had an appetite. Tasha had cried through the funeral, the drive back, and the unbearable silence that followed. Tyler hadn’t.

He should be crying. He wanted to. Since the day Tyler got the call, his chest was tight, and his throat burned. His stomach constantly twisted itself into knots. When someone mentioned Patrick, Tyler could feel the tears behind his eyes, but nothing ever came. His best friend—his brother in every way that mattered—was gone, and he hadn’t shed a goddamn tear. Instead, he heard the echoes of people telling him to “man up” or that “men didn’t cry.” Tyler only knew how to be stoic, and now, when he wanted to fall apart, he didn’t allow himself that relief.

“You don’t have to hold it in for my sake, you know.” Tasha’s voice broke the silence. It was rough and tired.

Tyler ripped his eyes from the clock and looked at Tasha for the first time all day. “I’m not.”

She let out a humorless laugh and gestured at the rigid way he sat. “You think I don’t see it? You haven’t looked at me all day.”

He relaxed his hands. “I’m really not.”

“Then why won’t you—” Tasha broke off, exhaling hard and wiping a fallen tear from her face. “Why won’t you let yourself feel it?”

Tyler felt the familiar pre-cry feelings again. His chest got tight, his throat hot, and he inhaled sharply. His mind waited for the break, the flood of tears. But, it still didn’t happen. “I don’t know how,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “I keep thinking ‘He’s gone,’ and it just—” His breath hitched, “Nothing happens.”

Tasha’s eyes softened, maybe with pity, as she reached her hand out. “You don’t have to prove anything. No one’s judging you.”

Tyler let out a bitter laugh. “I am. I’m judging myself.” And that’s when the dam broke. It wasn’t because of grief, not yet. Tears started falling due to the unbearable, suffocating feeling of being locked out of his own emotions. They fell because of the shame of making his best friend’s grieving girlfriend comfort him during the worst moment of her life. Tyler cried over the fact that his best friend was dead, and his body wouldn’t let him grieve in the way he wanted to.

Tyler covered his mouth with his right hand, trying to muffle the anguished sobs leaving his body. His entire body shook as if the grief was fighting him on its way out. Tasha didn’t say anything. She just held his other hand, crying silently for both Patrick and Tyler.

Darleine Abellard
Image – Two hands reaching for each other from Pixabay.com