A June Eulogy

t/w: homophobia

The loss of a child is a terrible thing. Losing a son is the worst. I was promised a lifetime of adoration – a canvas of flesh I might engrave with the sediment of my own youth. The sentence of motherhood is for life; cords are cut at birth, but we remain hopelessly tied to our children – like timber to a sinking ship. I won’t divulge the morbid details here, but the essence of my loss is this: my son followed a stranger down a dark path. It’s a humiliating, cliché fact, and, in the last few weeks, but today especially, the defining shadow of my existence.

“It really is a lovely chapel, Tam. Quaint. Well, no… not quaint — how rude! What I meant was intimate. Yes, intimate! But of course, you know I meant that.”

Leave it to a spare-invitation-we-went-to-the-Christening guest to show up and ruin a private moment. 

I can tell you, there is absolutely nothing intimate about Kristina Kerr, whose physique may only be described as a poor imitation of a seal. All right, I’ll admit that was below the belt. I’m not quite myself today, as any of my guests can see. I rivalled Kristina myself in size only weeks ago. Stress works wonders for weight loss. 

Stained glass hangs behind my aqueous guest, casting four faint shadows across the limestone floor. Lifeless as a melancholy child’s finger painting, the charcoal smudges echo my once-upon-a-family. Like Kristina Kerr and the other voyeurs of my suffering, the shadows infuriate me.

The stale air clings to my sides. Its suffocating stillness drapes a sort of film over our sightseers, exposing even the most rehearsed grin as toothy and flat. Days such as these provoke the expected: tears, bitter smiles that don’t quite make it to the masseters, guests lecturing me on how proud I should be. They share memories of my son in a muted chorus, repressing the notes as I pass their pews, as if their trivial stories pose some great family secret. Bollocks – I knew everything about him.

My dress is loose, unflatteringly so. Once again, my body finds itself at my son’s mercy. I was revoltingly fat during my pregnancy, and now as sadness fills my womb instead, I’m a bloody stick. I’m smart, I know that a woman's body is but a vessel, so when the sadness stops gnawing at my marrow – what purpose might my hollow carcass serve?

An oak crucifix belittles me from its display. Half-filled pews stand in solemn lines; leave it to this crowd to show up fashionably late. They say your friends are a reflection of yourself, and my guests, mostly Daniel's new acquaintances, are doing a wonderful job of creating a bright, hideous tapestry of his mistakes.

On the bright side, I know this lot don’t attend these things empty handed. Let’s find a smoke.

A perverse camaraderie manifests in the courtyard outside the church. Timid murders of friends congregate ashamedly, forming shallow alliances under the mist of cigarette smoke. An unforgiving wind sets this June afternoon apart, polluting the sun's light. 

The whole scene unfolds like a strange parade of life. Daniel’s colleagues wave, confident in their uniformity. Forgotten teachers nod politely. A few familiar school friends hurriedly ash half-smoked roll-ups, avoiding my gaze with such customary guilt that I can't help feeling sentimental. I think of all the summers lost to broken curfews. I forget stolen bottles. I forgive past scalding words. You couldn't begin to imagine what I would sacrifice to find him once more, smoking on the roof wearing his father's nightrobe. The years I would surrender from my own life for just one more sleepless night, waiting for the familiar rattle of his keys.

“Here she is! Ah, Tam — you must be so proud. I reckon after all of this, you probably deserve a smoke!”

Ah, the familiar thunder of Timmy McMorran. Like a storm, you tend to hear Tim before he allows you a glimpse. Like a storm, he carries a faint scent of destruction, masked with Moschino cologne. It was Tim who I found beneath Daniel's covers in their university house, Tim who encouraged my son’s stint in musical theatre, which I still blame for most of this. It was Tim who stole precious years with my son — the muse of his later demons.

“Timmy, you look wonderful! I knew you’d help an old friend out.” I wink, for dramatic effect. Say what you will, but I know my audience.

“Absolutely.” His brows betray him. Much like the unsavoury warnings on the cigarette box he is petting, Tim’s pained expression serves as an aggressive reminder of the dangers of excessive Botox.

“Gorgeous chapel.”

Smoke becomes nectar as it passes my lips. Tim laughs nervously.

“Chapel? Church?”

I doubt any of Danny’s friends have any hash for after…

“Really, reaaaallllly amazing choice. I was just saying to Teddy how I can NOT believe that today is the day.”

Eggshells break. My smile falters. I feel mean.

“Well, I think we’ve had enough time to prepare. What exactly, about all of this, I mean, do you and Teddy find so shocking?”

Bingo. The expression fighting for control of Tim’s frozen face can only be described as beat-up-Bambi. As his artificial cheeks rival the peaks of his collar, Tim scans the crowd frantically, he looks like a meercat. If he could flinch, I’m certain he would. But Daniel’s past now writhes before me, smiling sympathetically. I suddenly feel the overwhelming urge to take him by the overworked hair. I want to hold him tight and long and painfully. I want our agonies and suppressions and competitive grief to fuse into one ugly pit of adoration. I want to skin the flesh from our mourning bodies and craft a sculpture of my heartache — a shrine to his lover and my son in the courtyard of the chapel we now lose him.

People stare. I take Tim’s hand, swallowing my disgust at the sight of his new Disney-inspired tattoo.

“Sorry, lovely. Emotions are high.” Cue exaggerated jazz hands.

“Absolutely.” Cue silly Botox nods. Peace is restored.

“Let’s head inside! The Mother of the Groom can’t be seen outside fagging!”