Your Funeral

I wish I’d known you better. I wish I had spent more minutes in your presence. I wish we had swapped more details about our journeys. I wish you had expressed more sentiments about our different generations. I wish you were here, but I know that you are. I know because I feel comfortable here at your funeral. I feel accepted, despite knowing you just well enough to cross the line that separates “yes, I will pay my respects in person” and simply stating “oh, that’s too bad, he was a good man” and carrying on.

I did step. I did cross. I am here, propped up formal on this hard slab of wood, polished skillfully yet splintered, faded, decayed, permanently misshapen by countless others who collectively pressed their weight down prior. Fidgeting. Visiting. Singing. Clinging. Wondering. Pondering. Searching. Fearing. Regressing. Repressing. Contemplating only God knows what. Regrets? Sins? Expectations? Trust? Dedication? Decay? Purpose? Time?

Yes, time. Always time. Sitting here among your wife now alone, your children now without father, your friends now one less, all so vocal in loss, so demonstrative in expressing joy for a life well lived, I’m contemplating time. What is it? What has it brought? What will it bring? What will it allow?

I’m not afraid. I’m not confused. I’m not lonely or without hope. I’m not drifting. I’m not defeated. I’m not drained. No, you’re lifting me. You’re signaling me. You’re showing the way. You’re teaching. You’re gifting answers. You’re amazing in death. You’re all-knowing. Completely logical. Your freedom is liberating. The tales, the jokes, the tears in your honor are beacons. Steps. Pathways. Roads. You’re a pioneer.

I'm motivated. You've fueled my internal fire. Set me straight. Pointed the way. Provided dimension. Shape, form, and function. You've held up the mirror. Forced examination. Forced conclusions. Forced intentions. You should know I’m thankful in your death. You should know you’re teaching still. You should know I’m still benefiting from your wisdom. You should know I’m still learning about you. You should know we're still spending time. You should know I had no choice but to cross that line. 

Weed

“What the hell is that, man? It smells like a skunk in here?” “Dude, it's weed.” And so it was. Me and bud occupying the same room for the very first time. “Ah, so that’s what it smells like.” Once smartened up, instincts kicked in. Suddenly, I was cool. I was hip. In the know. Experienced. Weathered. Hardened. Only I wasn't. I was nothing. Nowhere. Never had been. Standing there against the wall in that dingy upstairs apartment, shades pulled down, cheap-ass speakers spewing shitty southern rock, dirty carpet tolerating beer-soaked teens looking half-dead but never so alive, I was never more a child, looking to escape, looking to disappear.

It's a funny thing trying to act unaffected. Trying not to gawk at the baggie stretched out before you. Trying to hide a stupid-ass, gaping grin etched across my face. Trying to hide the obvious fact I was a naive cherry nowhere ready to be plucked? But oh how I wanted to learn. How I wanted to pull out a notebook and take notes. How I wanted to whip out a camera and document the moment to study later on. How I wanted to pretend the faces of the older kids that I had managed to avoid pissing off for years in the hallways and in the alley across from school sharing their cigarettes in tight, little circles weren't now mugging me mean. These faces now forming an army, hard, ugly, and unforgiving. Poking holes in my bones with beady, dilated pupils. Sizing me up to chop me down. Testing me knowingly. “You aren’t cool, man,” their eyes declared. “What the hell are you doing here?” those eyes asked. “You better not have a big mouth,” those eyes threatened. 

Me? A big mouth? I wasn't even supposed to be here. Not anywhere close to here. If they thought I was about to put myself at the scene of the toking, they didn’t know my dad or the power he possessed at all. They didn’t understand the capabilities he held. They didn't know the unnecessary pain I'd be subjecting myself to by turning rat fink. They didn't know I was too scared to squeal. Scared of them. Scared of my old man. Scared that I was never going to be the same by seeing what I was seeing. 

But oh, I too intrigued to turn away. Mystified. Enraptured. Spellbound. By the smell. The process. The aftermath. The paper. The delicate sprinkles. The art of the roll. The tongue licks. The breathe held. The pass to the right. The great exhale. The pleasure produced. The circle of the stoned. No one invited me to enter, and I wasn’t about to ask in. I’m not even supposed to be here. Nowhere close to here. But I was there. Watching. Observing. Absorbing. Enthralled. Captivated. Grown up. A big boy now. Only I wasn’t. Not even close. I was a pup, shaken, frightened, a runt. I wasn’t ready for this. I wasn’t prepared. I swallowed too much too soon. Too much defiance. Too much freedom. Too much regard lacking. Too many words. Too many bodies. Too many possibilities. Too much uncertainty. Too much that couldn't be unseen.

It’s a funny thing, seeing too much too soon. You can’t give it back. You can’t slow it down. You can’t predict the response. What is seen is seen. Doesn’t matter if you're supposed to be there or not. Doesn’t matter what your old man might do if he finds out. Once you’re smartened up, there’s no dumbing yourself down. You're exposed. Enlightened. Changed. You're a child no more.