Cemetery Street

On December 23rd, Shannie was laid to rest. Her funeral, a straightforward Episcopalian affair, was elegant in its simplicity. The minister's voice, echoing through the half-empty church, eulogized her saying that "Shannie's last actions would define her forever; they attest that she gave so willingly of herself in life, to the extreme of giving her life attempting to save another. God smiles brightly on those who follow in his son's footsteps."

Holy platitudes, I thought, groaning audibly. I turned my attention to Shannie's casket, as I studied its brass handrail, a tear puddled and ran down my cheek. The image of Shannie lying inside, without breath, seemed so unfathomable; so foreign, so wrong! I remembered the night that we made love and afterwards how I laid awake, watching her chest rise and fall in peaceful sleep, each breath a wave on a summertime sea.

Under my breath, I whispered to the casket, "I love you Shannie, you know I really love you, but God knows I hope you're wrong." I was pondering our conversation about life after death - we had it after our near miss on the Atlantic City Expressway.

"Dead is dead, dead means you're not alive, that all awareness ceases," Shannie argued.

I glared at the casket, images of my own near-death experience consuming me. God, I regret not sharing them with her. She said a near-death experience was our body's way of tricking ourselves, that "it's kinda like the ultimate survival instinct, you know, like making us believe we're going to survive even though we're in the very act of dying."

"God," I again prayed turning my gaze from her casket. "For Shannie's sake, make her wrong." Studying the cross behind the altar, I couldn't shake the idea that Shannie's influence over me squeezed the validity out of my own experiences.

Around me the congregation stood. As I eyed the casket I noticed Krista peering at me. Her big brown eyes, warm and full of empathy, held mine for a moment. Uncomfortable with the attention I turned away. I focused on the giant cross behind the altar as the congregation burst into hymn signifying the end of the service.

As the hymn closed I joined the other pallbearers along Shannie's casket.

Despite my father's protestations I demanded on being a pallbearer. "Why is it so important James?" my father questioned the day before the service. "Why at the head of the casket?"

"You just don't get it?"

"No, I don't."

I didn't explain that this would be the last chance I'd have to be close Shannie. To be so close to her heart.