Eulogy of the Living

by Maru Yang

            The old man hobbled down the aisle as he made his way to the altar at the front of the church. He was an ordinary looking man, with gray, rheumy eyes and thinning white hair that showed through to his scalp so much so that it appeared limp and bare up close. He seemed oddly out of place alone, nearer to the type of man who thrived among a crowd. He was the gentleman, sitting in the back of a busy coffee shop reading a newspaper over hot coffee, the grandfather at Thanksgiving who made little commentary and no speech. He had a type of face that was often forgotten by others, and with his voice and presence alone he remained hazy without any identifying features.

            Standing at the pulpit alone, the old man held a sheet of paper out in front of him. He fiddled with it nervously, and the crinkling of the paper flapped into the microphone.

            The room had fallen silent long before the man had come up to the front; the organist even before then, and the children too, who had been running about and shouting only moments before. Patiently the crowd of a couple dozen waited for him, solemn in their mass of black and modest clothing. At last he began to speak.

            “Thank you for coming,” he began, and his voice came out faded and thin. As he spoke, his words grew quieter. “She was truly remarkable and I remember when we were young…two children…happiness…she…” The words faded in and out.

            Standing at the altar alone, a strange and crude melancholy grasped the old man. He was no longer staring down at the page in his hand, but instead gazing off into the distance like an actor on a stage—imagining another world that no one else could see that was not entirely false but also not entirely there. His agony was raw and, in a moment, the old man did not appear to be an old man at all but instead a trembling boy. Though his words remained strong, his voice betrayed him, and it rose and fell unevenly like a warped sheet of metal in the heat.

            Then just like that, it was over.

            Quietly, the old man stepped down from the pulpit as two gentlemen emerged from the pews. They were still young, perhaps only in their early thirties, and if they had any relation to the old man they did not show it. The two took position on either end of the casket that lay in the middle of the altar and grabbed hold of the top, grunting as they opened it unceremoniously.

            Inside rested an old woman, lying peacefully in her blissful state of unawareness. Though she could have easily been a grandmother to many of the people in the room, there was a sweet whispering of youth hidden in her expression that made it simple to imagine what she would have been like when she was young. Her skin was wrinkled, telling stories of her life, and despite the many who mourned around her in the church there was a soft smile at her lips.

            With a somber nod from the priest, the guests began to form a line down the middle of the empty aisle. No one said a thing, and as the sound of rustling coats and fabric died away all became quiet once more.

            Just then a cry came from somewhere in the room.

            There was a stirring up front, and the guests turned their heads to each other before craning their necks to see what was happening.

            Beside the pulpit in a heap, the old man was on the floor.

            He wept uncontrollably, hands and fingers clawing at his face, howling in a horrid way like that of a wounded animal. The sound was primitive and the children, unaware of what was happening, covered their ears and looked up to their parents in confusion as regards to the terrible noise.

            After a brief moment two women and an elderly man came up to the front, kneeling down on the floor beside him. They were likely his daughters and brother, and for what seemed to be a long time they patted his shoulders and rubbed his back, whispering sweet words into his ear though they could not be heard over his cries.

            Much as they tried, he was inconsolable.

            Eventually the priest came over, and there was a short conversation between him and the older man who then, turning to his brother, coaxed him gently to his feet and led him out of the room with his daughters. As the doors shut behind them, an odd silence reclaimed the room. The crowd shifted uncomfortably.

            After a few moments the old man’s daughter reappeared. She smiled sweetly to the crowd, though it was clear she was flustered. Her voice was high and quiet in the silence.

            “Sorry everyone, you may go ahead now.”

            A murmur filled the room and there was a brief hesitation.

            Then, with a slight stiffness, the first couple stepped up to the altar. After a moment the entire room seemed to take a collective breath, and gradually the silent hold over the people eased. Children called out to their siblings once more and faces and shoulders relaxed, and the regular dexterity of the people ebbed its way back into the masses. Conversation arose in the empty space to make up for the prolonged silence as the line moved along.

            After some time there was a clatter of voices down the hall and the reception began. Wine and food made its rounds, plates and glasses chiming. And, in a moment—among the polite exchanges and smiles, the laughter and the greetings—the funeral and the agony of the old man was long forgotten by the people.

***

            The chatter of the bar was lively in the early evening glow. The music had slowed and the crowd swayed in a gentle manner, pressing close and near against each other as they danced to the low, husky voice that drifted from the stereo in the corner of the room.

            There was a large crowd—gaggles of girls in dresses lounging together in groups; couples without children and people who had just met that were already infatuated; youngsters with wary and blemished faces who had either bribed the bartender or forged an ID just as George had done when he was young.

            In the low dim light, the space was strangely warped in such a way that made the moment feel like a fever dream, and it was beneath these four dark walls and plastered roof where George had gone so often as a boy that he was reminded of his childhood.

            Though the evening was young the sky had begun to darken, and a fog collected at the windows. All other shops in the plaza had already closed and the solitary light of the bar spilled out onto the dark streets.

            George thought of his wife and children, who were back at home a sea away, and wondered what they were doing. What had they eaten for dinner? Were his daughters already asleep or did they lie awake chattering and laughing with each other in their beds? They had not come to the funeral with him, for it was during the school year and they had not even known the great aunt who passed anyway.

            George was still in his suit, having left directly after the service and now he stood, loosening his tie and making himself comfortable. He wondered if his wife was worried about him, as she had a tendency to, and thought about calling before it became too late.

            This, among others, was one of the more strange yet comforting things that George had come to know after marriage. And the knowledge that his life no longer solely belonged to him but also to his wife and children was equally both terrifying and fulfilling. There was more that he stood to lose now, but more that he had also gained, by knowing that if he disappeared someone would search for him, and if he was wronged someone would fight for him. He felt a primitive desire to do the same for them, and from his family he had found, perhaps more than love, a purpose.

            George stood, taking his drink with him, and wandered away back into a dim corridor just outside the restrooms. It was deserted, and he pulled out his phone to call his wife. She picked up on the second ring.

            “Girls, it’s Daddy!” He heard his wife call, and the sound of her voice lilted a smile to his face. There was another voice in the back that he did not recognize as either of his daughters’, and softly he chuckled as he recognized it as the melody to “Let It Go”. His daughters’ voices flooded the phone.

            “Hi Daddy!” His youngest peeped up first.

            “Hi!” George replied, finding himself adopting the same excitement and energy his daughter held. “How was your day?”

            “Good! And guess what?” She went on without pausing. “Mommy made us mac and cheese for dinner and she’s letting us eat it in front of the TV! We’re watching Elsa.”

            “It's Frozen, not Elsa,” his older daughter corrected, and there was a brief pause where George could tell they were making faces at each other.

            “Well I call it Elsa,” the youngest said defiantly.

            “Fine, but you’re wrong.”

            “Mom!”

            His wife’s voice interjected calmly. “You can call it whatever you want, girls.”

            “See?” The younger one’s voice. “I told you so.”

            “Whatever.”

            He heard them run off again and his wife reclaimed the phone.

            “Hi,” she said, sounding exasperated.

            He only laughed. “Have they been like that all day?”

            “Yes”, she replied, “they’ve been toggling back and forth between fighting and playing, and quite frankly I can’t even tell anymore if they're actually mad at each other or just joking.” His wife paused, and he heard his daughters singing in the background. “Oh, here they go again…” she said. “And in three…two…one…” The two voices rose and there was a clash shouting and bickering again. His wife sighed.

            “Want me to talk to them?” George asked.

            “No, it’s alright,” she said. “To be honest, my sisters and I probably argued worse when we were young. My poor parents. We must’ve given them a year-long headache.”

            He chuckled. “Wouldn’t be a sibling relationship without it, would it?”

            “I guess not,” his wife agreed, and he could tell she was watching them again. “Anyways”, she resumed after a pause, “how’s England?”

            “It’s nice,” he said simply.

            “George,” she said suddenly, laughing, “where are you? You know I can hear the music in the back.”

            He smiled guiltily. Somehow sensing his silent response, his wife laughed harder. “Being young again for a night, I see.” She said, and added, “just don’t drink too much and call a taxi to take you back to the hotel when you’re done, okay?”

            George assured her he would.

            “Okay.” She said, then laughed sheepishly. “And maybe bring home a bit of that beer too?”

            He smiled. “Dark or light?”

            “Dark.”

            “Got it.” He said. He heard his daughters playing in the background again. A comfortable silence fell between them.

            “Well…” his wife said eventually, “I guess it's about time for us to go off to bed. It’s around midnight over here.”

            “Wow, I completely forgot about the time difference,” George said, leaning back against the wall. “I’m surprised the girls even lasted this long.”

            “Me too,” she said, with a soft laugh. “Goodnight Georgie, I love you.”

            “I love you too,” he said, and they hung up.

            Left alone in the quiet again his heart ached for his wife, and for a moment he stood there in the darkness. Eventually he headed back to his seat at the counter.

            They had met in college many years ago, bumping into each other at the library and sharing classes. And though he had originally grown up in England, the States seemed to be the only home he knew now. For a year after graduating he and his wife traveled around the world seemingly spontaneously, living in one-room apartments and eating street foods—belonging everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

            Though now that time of their life seemed to be a world away, George still thought back to those places they had gone fondly.

            The salty bite of the sea wind in Kinsale whilst standing at the edge of a cliff, and the warm hearty food of Mexico as the sun set peacefully just in time for dinner. There was more than what was written in the books and captured in pictures—the tiny details that were never spoken of but shaped the memories. And the people—so different from himself yet also alike—growing up in different worlds but bonded by human life. The time seemed strangely magical now whenever George looked back upon it, and sometimes he even found himself yearning for it if only for a moment.

            It was around those experiences that he had built up a lot of his life, including the success of his marriage. They had been both young back then, both new to life and the world on their own, and it was onto each other that they held on in the whirlwind of change. And though there were many fights, there were many apologies and conversations too. In a way their travels had prepared them for the many new things to come, a trial for not only how to love each other but also how to make a life together.

            Now that he was older he was thankful for the experience, for it had taken him many years to understand that loving and harmonizing with someone were two different things. Every so often a friend would call him and disclose privately that they were unhappy with their marriage. He would listen to their grievances, and the more this occurred the more George realized that it was not because they did not love each other, but simply because they did not know how to. It was not solely love that made a relationship, but trust and vulnerability; commitment and patience.

            In an odd pang of sadness, he thought of the old man.

            His plain face and trembling hands, expression contorted by tears. And though it was clear how deeply the old couple had loved—how deeply they had lived many years together filled with laughter and light—only the sight of the old man’s heartache was what stuck with George afterwards.

            In a way the moment had been strangely terrifying to him, as if he was taking a glimpse into his own future. His fate laid bare out in front of him; the plain prophecy that to live was to suffer displayed in grandeur. It made him uneasy, to know that life continued on even after another ended, and though the dead did not feel or know anything of their own death, it was living who had to agonize and suffer through it.

            And as he looked over the crowd of young faces tonight, he felt a touch of that same sense of loss.

            Hadn’t it been just yesterday that he had been one of them? Hanging out and having his first drink here and dancing in the same place that they did now?

            Where all the time had gone, he did not know.

            At times George found himself slipping into a type of frenzy, suddenly conscious of the passing of time and fearing that he was wasting it. This constant anxiety followed after him as a shadow, and like a shadow it sometimes slipped from his mind and other times made itself known to him.

            Oftentimes he would lie awake in bed at night and become frightened by the fragility of his life, the delicate pulse beating at his neck and ribs that easily bruised—bones that cracked and shattered, and skin that was eager to tear and run red. It was strange how quickly life could be over, an elderly person who had been alive for a century suddenly gone in a second, and yet another young person cruelly dying of a disease for years.

            It was in these moments that he thought back on his life as a whole, asking himself that if he died the next day would he be satisfied with how his life turned out? It was then that he would become quietly sentimental, gazing over at his wife lying next to him at night, or smiling at the dinner table as he watched his daughters clamor and shout over each other. He could never imagine leaving them, or them leaving him, and yet he knew that someday it would happen.

            Much as he tried to savor these moments, it was nearly impossible to savor all of them. Despite what his mother would tell him, or what philosophers and religious figures always preached, he came to believe that it was not entirely possible to lead a life without regret. It was what the human mind fell back on, imagining and meditating what could have been in its own way of preparing for what was to come.

            George glanced up briefly as another man joined the group that was forming at the bar counter.

            He was grimy and gave off a smell of smoke that was both bitter and sweet, and without looking at anyone he sat down a stool away from George, next to a couple who grew uneasy by his presence and glanced in his direction warily.

            As the new man called over the bartender, he was struck with the strange feeling that he somehow knew the man. George looked in his direction subtly as he greeted the bartender, their faces easy and interaction affable in a way that made George think they were not strangers.

            He watched as the man reached out to take his drink, the pointer finger of his hand missing though it had not always been. He had lost it when he was a boy, George remembered suddenly, playing in his father’s workshop, cut off on the blade of a buzz saw.

            George looked at the man. “Harry?” He asked.

            Slowly the man looked up, confusion crossing his face. He glanced around briefly, and stopped when he saw George. He furrowed his brow for a moment. A glimmer of recognition passed over his face.

            “Well I’ll be damned. George Arthur Clarke,” he said in disbelief, “is that you?”

            A large smile broke out across his face and before George could respond Harry was clapping him on the shoulder, calling out to someone behind the counter.

            “Hey Sam, c’mere!” He hollered. “Look! It's George!”

            The bartender came over and, in a moment of shock, George suddenly recognized him as well.

            He was lankier now, tall, and with a neatly groomed mustache like one out of an old detective movie, his long hair cut short and combed over in a way that shaped his face to appear shorter. Both of his friends had changed impeccably since George last saw them, and yet there was no doubt about it—it was them. His childhood friends and accomplices in boyhood; all those years of hunting after wild rabbits and sneaking into nightclubs—cutting class to smoke in the bathroom and chase after girls.

            “My God George, I hardly recognized you with that accent!” Sam said, teasingly. “Mr. All-American now, huh?”

            Harry reached over and tousled George’s hair. “Oh don’t go making him feel bad! He might’ve decided to be special and go off to the States but hey,” he said, “once a Brit, always a Brit.”

            Sam cackled and poured Harry a drink. “You’re full of some shit.”

            “I’m serious! I mean how long has it been since we last saw him? Fifteen? Twenty?—” he guzzled down his drink, “—and then of all places this is where he shows up again! Sittin’ in the pub we used to horse around in when we were boys.” He laughed and wrapped his arm around George’s shoulder with so much force he nearly fell from his stool. “Guess some things never change, am I right?”

            George only nodded and smiled at this, shoving him off awkwardly.

            He could tell that Harry was already becoming drunk, and briefly he wondered how strong the drink was. He had always had the lowest tolerance among the three of them even when they were young, and yet that also never stopped him from drinking the most. Sam and George had had to help him home after a night out so many times before they had lost count.

            Harry began to ramble. “...and remember that time we tried to sneak into a nightclub with our dads’ suits and the bouncer didn’t buy it? And we had to climb up the trash shoot?” Harry howled. “There we were—just a bunch of scrawny boys covered in dog shit and no one batted a heckin’ eye! We all got hammered but Sammie—” He burst out into laughter again.

            “Oh God,” Sam said, covering his face with his hands.

            “ —Sammie started flirtin’ with some lady going on a date with her husband! Right in front of his face! And then he—she—” Harry fell into another fit of laughter.

            Sam rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah I tried to kiss her and she whooped me in the arse with her purse. You’ve told this story a million times, Harry.”

            “What is she now, like eighty?” He shouted, “didn’t know you had a thing for old women, Sammie!”

            Sam grabbed Harry by the collar and hissed at him to lower his voice. George smiled quietly and sipped his drink.

            Again a small twinge of sadness tugged at him.

            Even as he sat next to the men who had once been closest to him, strangely he could not feel their connection anymore. It was as if a single link between them had disappeared, and as a result the whole chain had collapsed, their distance palpable like a solid thing.

            And it was he who had broken the link.

            He who had changed—became married, had children; traveled to new places and founded a life in a foreign one. And within him he felt a cold wash of disappointment.

            But George continued to stay, and drank his beer beside Sam and Harry.

            Sam had taken his leave for the night and they were laughing again, drunk and boisterous in their conversation as they wrestled and drank. And for the rest of the night, George did not move. He stayed, even after he sensed he was no longer a part of the conversation and he was no longer listening and they were inebriated, he stayed.

            Tomorrow he would fly home to his family and return to a normal life, falling back into the motions of routine. Someday he would watch his daughters grow up and they would leave him, and eventually either he or his wife would go first, and he knew, sitting by himself now, that from then on the years would only grow shorter as he grew older.

            But tonight, he sat there in the bar and waited, and for what, he did not know.

            But perhaps that suited him just fine.