Art by Jami Carboon

Content Warning: death

Ham and cheese, chicken salad, cheese and pickle. My mother lays out each wholemeal triangle with little silver tongs. A small bump of the table with my hip exposes the innards of a chicken sandwich. She tuts pointedly.

‘Aunt Eleanor was a fucking vegan.’ I mutter as my mother picks up the fallen soldier. My fingers find the lighter in my pocket, the metal still warm from my frequent tracing of the engravings.

‘That doesn’t mean that we all need to suffer. You think your grandfather would survive eating a tofu?’ She resumes her assembly. ‘Anyhow, it’s not as if she’s tucking in.’

I look over at the carpeted stage, holding its breath for the coffin to arrive. If I stare, I can see the fluorescents wilting the white bouquets—slightly green under the bulbs’ scrutiny.

My mother never got on with her sister. I phrase it like that as the dislike was predominantly one-sided, judgement flowing freely from my mother yet not met with an equal reaction. This was the first thing you and I had in common. My mother wasn’t fond of me either, an attitude that originated and cemented itself in our relationship long before I could prove myself. As a child, it destroyed me, but there is only so much damage one can find pain in. You understood that, and so I fit perfectly under your wing. 

The last time I saw you, we drank Earl Grey and cut the stalks off flowers, dropping proteas and grevilleas into fresh water. You always opted for a little extra colour in your space.

We sit on foldable chairs—the classroom kind with vinyl-covered slivers of foam for the seat. There isn’t enough room for everyone and so close family were shuffled to the very front of the Parish hall. If I lean slightly, I can almost rest my chin on the stage. My damp hands press prints into the thin booklet of hymns on my lap as my mother and cousins hold theirs open like an offering. You used to laugh at all this. Palava, you called it. Always turning round from the row in front to wink at me during ‘Blessed Assurance’, knowing I was poorly lip-syncing the words in quiet defiance. I would never let the melodies stick in my memory.

I almost can’t believe they’d force this prayer shit onto you, especially on the one day you can’t protest. I suppose that’s part of the fun, now they can do whatever they please. If this was someone else’s funeral and you were here on the rickety chair beside me, you wouldn’t think twice about saying something. Ah, they’d fucking hate this and you know it, I can hear you so clearly in my ear. Thank you, for drowning out the hymns.

My grandfather, still looming large despite his stooped frame, steps before the podium. I have always dreaded his serious drawl, perpetually delivering a sermon of sorts or preaching at the dinner table. He thinks he was a missionary in his past life. 

‘Eleanor, I stand before you as your loving father in body and in spirit. Your life took an interesting path, but all roads have led you to a heavenly conclusion.’ He bows his head, spectacles threatening to dribble over the end of his nose. ‘God has let you into his heart today.’

The metal legs of my chair scratch the polished floor as I stand up. My mother looks up at me, perplexed and exasperated, grabbing lamely at my pant leg to try and force me into my seat. I wriggle ungracefully in response.

‘Is that seriously what you’ve chosen to say?’ I ask. ‘You should know your own daughter well enough to know that she wouldn’t have wanted a goodbye like this.’

My grandfather’s small eyes catch the light, unblinking.

‘Sit down, son.’

‘No, it’s disgusting! You couldn’t tolerate her when she was alive, but now you think you have the right to snuff her out on her final day?’

‘This is a family event—’

‘It is not! It’s her event. Are you all here for Eleanor, or have you only shown up so that God can see you at least made an appearance?’ Murmurs begin to circulate through the rows. ‘She’s laughing at all of you, at how you never managed to surprise her. Not in 56 years.’

I step into the aisle, framed on both sides by fluffy beacons of white chrysanthemum. I look down at my mother. ‘She would never have imposed herself upon you like this.’

‘For God’s sake, Elliot,’ she whispers as I storm past her. The murmurs grow louder as I sail toward the exit.

‘Fussing isn’t no way to send Eleanor off.’ Someone tuts.

‘Didn’t you raise this boy better?’

Their words speed towards me but bounce off my jacket, impenetrable. I fling open the double doors at the back of the hall, admittedly relishing in the dramatics of my exit. 

The church carpark is dotted with familiar station wagons, forming a congregation around the singular oak tree at its centre. The leaves are dropping, hitting the bonnets with caresses so light I cannot quite hear. You would tell me to listen closely, to get lost in the small, soundless breaths of the world.

I shake a flattened packet of Chesterfield’s until one falls out sadly, slightly ovular from being pressed against a fold-out chair all morning. I thumb the lighter in my pocket again—your lighter. With its grooves and scratches, the zippo maps a life well lived and well loved. I bring it before the afternoon’s gaze to light the cigarette in my mouth. Etched on the body is a skeletal hand, fanning out two aces and two eights, clubs and spades. The last hand of Wild Bill Hickok, you told me as a child, my plump fingers trying desperately to flick the spark wheel. He was a real cowboy, you said, he died as he lived.