by Rose Brown
I can’t tell if the yowling’s for the dead or the heat. It’s cicada hiss and lawn mower growl hot—so hot, it’s disrespectful. But as Dad shovels dirt over Papa, I’m cold. I can’t cry, and it feels like sin.
“It’s alright to grieve,” Aunt June whispers. “Ain’t no shame in it.”
She fans herself with a program as tears drip below her sunglasses. She means it’s shameful not to cry, especially for your own. But I can’t put on grief like wide-brimmed hats and pearls and black dresses. Can’t wear it if I don’t mean it.
“Who’s catering?” I say. “I’m starved.”
“Lawd!” June scowls and whacks my shoulder with the program.
Bone-white laurels punch through the dirt like defiant little fists. My uncle stomps over their petals, a banjolele slung over his shoulder. A stringed thing torn between a banjo and ukulele, mourning and joy. He stops beside the gravediggers and smiles.
“For Papa,” he says, and strums. The bluegrass starts low but swings lighter, too cheery. Feet thump against dirt. A few hips sway. The song almost turns Papa’s funeral into a shindig, like we can’t decide whether to celebrate or sob. At least, I can’t.
I don’t hate Papa. Just never knew how to like him. War, whiskey, and whatever else made him mean. A monster most days. But human, somehow, when he told stories.
The man could lie like a Craigslist landlord. But a few of his tales were true, like how his Pops made him wait outside town shops, too ashamed of the darkness of his own son’s skin. He also told war stories. Well, started them. They ended like his altar boy stories, in a grunt, silence, and another bottle.
Last time I saw Papa, a few months before he died, he slumped in that ugly olive recliner, its guts spilling out the side. Cancer made him thinner, weaker, but no less angry.
“He still flies off the handle over nothin’,” June muttered. She told me Papa had been phoning friends and bragging to the neighbors about how his grandkid got into college—akin to an Olympic gold medal in our small Appalachian town. So he hugged me when he saw me and stuck a cigar in my palm, even though he always said smokes weren’t for girls.
We rocked on the porch and talked, smoking as the sky turned from gold to dusky purple. Fireflies sparked in the weeds. Papa slapped his knee when I told him how I aced my first exam, and asked all about school more than he’d ever asked me about anything.
Dad and his siblings didn’t make it through high school, and my cousins spent more time behind bars than out ‘cause they couldn’t keep away from dope. Papa didn’t get boys to brag on. He got me.
“There’s a spirit in these woods,” Papa said. He told me the legend of a lost soul who whistles past the willows, only in summer, near graves. He carries the bones of his father in a sack over his shoulder.
“He just keeps walkin’, bones clackin’ like ice in a cup, lookin’ for a place to lay it down. But never does.”
“Why not?” I asked.
Papa scratched his beard. “Some things can’t be put away, no matter how hard ya try.” He went quiet for a moment, then shouted at June to bring him a beer. She took too long. When she finally handed it over, he tossed it at her and shattered it against the brick, just shy of her head.
June still kept his meds organized, drove him to appointments, even helped bathe him when his legs started to give. She looked after him, and that’s how he thanked her.
Papa asked if I’d come back soon. I said maybe, but lied. To him, women were maids and half-brains. But even my half a brain knew to get out before he made me into June.
Now, past the freshly buried casket and teary crowd, willow trees line the graveyard. They’re bent and mournful. A brief gust makes the boughs drift slow and ghost-like as Papa’s voice echoes in my head:
“Only in summer, by the graves. He carries a sack of his father’s bones. Looks for a spot to bury ‘em. Never finds one. Can’t let go.”
But I don’t see a spirit by the willows. Just Dad standing stiff, shoulders tight. No ghostly whistle, only sniffles and wailing from the people Papa hurt most. As if he didn’t flick his family away like a cigarette out of a car window.
Dad stares at me and marches over. I see that tiny patch of dark skin on his left arm, still there from when Papa stuck a lighter to him after he “stole” a pack of gum as a toddler.
Dad waves a hand in front of my face. “It’s hotter than the hinges of hell out here. Y’alright?”
I nod.
It’s not a lie. Papa’s gone, and I’m fine. Cold. And that feels worse than being sad. Makes me feel like a beast, like I belong out in the woods on all fours more than in a dress and heels.
Finally, everyone shuffles back through the grass, to a narrow path leading to the church. It’s a white stoned building, sticking out of our godforsaken town like a diamond in dirt. I’m glad it’s almost done—the wails, the fake condolences, the platitudes.
They say Papa lit up every room, but don’t say how. They don’t admit he doused it in gasoline and struck a match—just say he had a nice smile. Like most of his stories, his eulogy’s a tall tale. One I’m tired of hearing.
We step past a wrought-iron gate screaming at the joints. A heavy silence makes my body tense. Even the birds hush. I walk beside Dad, no noise except the crunch of gravel beneath our feet.
June stops at the open church doors, dabbing her eyes, and waves us over. But Dad doesn’t follow the crowd inside. He nods to the parking lot and I follow, until we plop onto his truck bed. The metal sears through cotton into my thighs. I don’t move.
Dad doesn’t say anything as he passes me a steaming water bottle buried under a towel, hands shaking a little. Mine shake too. I want to ask if he’s glad Papa’s gone, but the question feels wicked.
Does Dad feel the same? Is he…relieved? Ashamed? Done with this funeral, too?
“Think you’ll miss him?”
Dad doesn’t answer right away. Doesn’t look at me when he does.
“I’ll miss who he coulda been.”
I nod and squeeze my hands together tight.
“I’m proud of you, you know that?” Dad says. “Hell, you’re the only good thing about me.”
I force a smile. Dad’s never been good with feelings. Neither have I. But if I’d been raised by Papa—never told I was loved, hit instead of held—I’d be worse. At least I got more than he did. I got scraps, but Dad got starved.
And I know Dad cares. I see it in his eyes, and in the way he calls on my breaks to ask if I’ll come visit.
He looks like he wants to say more, but sighs and picks at a hangnail. I want to ask if Papa ever told Dad he was proud, but I already know.
Dad yanks out a cigarette and marches toward the tree line. He leans against a trunk, folds his arms, and whistles.
A tear burns down my cheek, and I’m relieved. Maybe flesh beats behind my chest instead of granite after all. But I don’t cry for Papa. I cry for Dad.
Just ‘cause you bury a man doesn’t mean the hurt goes down with him. Maybe Papa learned that from his Pops, Dad learned it from Papa, and I learned it from Dad. I pray mine won’t learn it from me.
If Papa were here, what story would he tell? I’ll never know—and maybe that’s best. As Dad finishes his smoke, I head for the church. Sun whips my skin. My tears are already dry as I walk on, quietly carrying his bones.
