Orphan

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Orphan by Gary Mathers

The funeral was on a Thursday.  My wife Amy and I flew in on the red-eye from Los Angeles only a couple days before.  I’ve never been able to sleep on a plane.  Every time I take an overnight flight I end up living in a sleep depraved fog for the next couple days.  Like always, I get so fed up with my lack of focus and energy I swear I’ll never do that kind of flight again.  And like always, I do.

The past few days have been a cornucopia of friends and relatives I barely remember or have never met, but needed to give a convincing impression that their being there actually made a difference to me, my family and the memory of my mom. 

Saturday morning finally arrives and we get wedged into my aunt’s rented economy car with a two and a half hour drive back to the airport ahead of us.  To me, riding in a car is like riding in a plane but, if there was ever a situation where pretending to sleep would come in handy, this is it.  I would rather sit with my eyes closed and risk nausea for a couple hours than listen to one of Aunt Crazy’s politics, religion or UFO conspiracies.  With closed eyes and the drone of the highway I allow my mind to meander through some of the things that went on over the past few days.  For reasons I am sure a trained professional could explain, my head isn’t looking at the big picture but is stuck focusing on some of the small detail. 

When we first got to the house that Tuesday morning, I saw what first instinct dictated was a stranger slouching in a wheelchair in the middle of the living room.  Almost no sound, movement or expression; completely emaciated.  Who the hell was that and if its mom how could she possible have turned into that in the past couple months?  If not for the occasional roam and gasp of breath, it would indeed be the definition of a corpse. My sister woke me up late that very night to tell me mom had just died.  I went to the master bedroom and saw her laying there. I don’t know what made me do it, but I had to touch her forehead and I was amazed at how cold she had gotten so quickly. I remember at the church, the priest was rambling on and on in a language I never bothered to learn.  I know that fact was a disappointment to both my parents.  Afterwords at the house I remember the flock of old ladies sitting on the porch laughing hysterically to stories from their much younger days.  There were people and food everywhere, inside and out, for what seemed like hours.  Almost suddenly, I looked up and we were alone.  A quiet house.  That’s how it stayed until this morning.

Now here we sit at the airport.  Bags checked.  Magazines and snacks purchased. All that is left is to wait for the announcement that my section of the plane will board.  Here is where it hits me; the finality of the situation.  None of the self examination I do over the next few weeks on how I could have handled the funeral better will matter.  There won’t be a next time for me to ‘do it better.’  There is also no reason I can think of that I would ever be back to this airport, this town or even this state for that matter.  There is no one to visit.  Whenever a question comes up, or I’m looking for a phone number or whatever and the quick answer is to call mom, I guess I’ll be on my own.  I’m an orphan.  There’s no one left to disappoint.