The life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living.  Marcus Tullius Cicero.

     It seemed, in celebration for his death, the world threw itself into a saltshaker and flew into a symphony of winds.  The sky was in turmoil, the violent whooshing of the wind tossing my hair and whipping my jacket.  I shut my eyes, feeling the drops splatter onto my face, tracing lines of water on my cheeks, and mingling with the salty tears. 

    In numb coolness, I stepped from the rain into the safety of the rafters, shutting my blue-raindrop umbrella with a snap.  I turned on my heel and felt my way into the church, brushing off the “o”s that the raindrops left in attempt to dry them. 

    The rain had left puddles in my boots, leaving me to peel the socks from my bitterly cold feet.  After relieving my toes of the worn, soggy mess, I leaned my umbrella onto the wall, leaving it the cry leftover rain in solitude. 

    The church sounded close to empty, only the sound of the occasional tittering parent’s voices punuated the quiet though we were packed with dozens.  A mysterious force kept us quiet, even the infants were still in their blankets.  It was the silence of the ending. 

    “We should start singing.”

    My body turned and I found myself facing a stout little man with the slightest of potbellies.  His rounded glasses sat on the crook of his nose, giving him the appearance of an elderly grandpa.  He, like all others, was clothed in a black , the only pop of color was a rose sitting on his lapel.  What did he think it was, a wedding?  I snatched my judging eyes from his suit, and watched he gestured weakly to his hymn book and cleared his throat, as if prompting us to do something he couldn’t. 

    It had to be sometime when someone began to feel sorry for him.  A large woman, whom I knew as Mrs. Caila, with a capital M and C, began to sing.  Her deep, throaty tones rippled through the crowd.  The public shifted and the rustle of hymn books whispered through the meeting hall, and soon it wasn't just Mrs. Caila singing anymore.  The ripple of singing, or so he had called it reached my section, my mouth opened and I became one among many, just a little girl clothed in black and singing out the horrible, twisting feeling inside, one that proclaimed the pain of broken glass.  My lips tried to curve into a smile, knowing that was what he would have wanted, he would have laughed at how sad the whole thing was.  Knowing him, he would have tried to tell a joke.  But my mouth felt numb and dry, my tongue unwilling to move, my mind deprived of any acceptable joke.  The wind howled of my pain outside, to the tune of the miserable hymn.  It was the hymn of the finish.

    Goodbyes were up next, only the sobbing of his mother and the agonized moans of his father rose above the whispered consolations a 13 year old dead boy might find comforting. But each, as I strained to hear, was quiet and gentle and meaningless and very, very general.  You could say that for any dead person.  Anyone could have been lying in ashes in that box, and what they said would have worked.  It annoyed me for some reason. 

    It was my turn to say goodbye, and I stood up in my billowing black dress that my mother kissed and father ruffled.  Only a few hours ago, I was so proud of this attire, but now it seemed a million miles away, me laughing with my parents, twirling in this beautiful black thing.  There was only me and Death now. 

    I approached the little black box, knowing that there his ashes lay, the ugliness of his burned remains concealed by a case and beautified by vivacious flowers around it.  The people held their breath, watching me, in my dress, make my way up the aisle.  Afterall, I was the person they expected the most of, right next to his sobbing parents.  I was his best friend.

   As I stood up there, it felt as if I was standing right before him, standing before him as he sat on a gold throne only the dead would be permitted to sit on.  “Respect the dead” had a whole new meaning now.  The only thing that I could do was resist from bowing.  If he had seen me now, head hunched and feet together, fighting with nerves to see him, he would have grinned and tilted his head in wonder like, “My god what has gotten into you Kayla?  Not that I’m complaining, but wow?”

   I couldn’t laugh.  I couldn’t speak.  I couldn’t even cry.  I just kinda stood there for a moment, watching his ashes as they sat silently but not so silently in a box.  Suddenly, I had an unexplainable urge, almost a calling for me to do something.  Before anyone could say a thing, I picked up a neighboring watering can, wiped the nozzle clean with my dress, and dumped its contents on the flowers.  They danced a little among themselves, savoring my little gift, relishing the present.  The entire church stirred with confusion.  What was that?  I couldn’t think.

   Before I could tell myself to stop, before even common sense could get to me, my mouth opened and I whispered, “You grow forever with me, kay Kenta?”

   My feet started off the stage, shuffling slowly as if God had pressed slo-mo on the video recording known as life.  And, before I could cry, I took my place among the many mourners, ignoring the few people that shot questioning looks my way.  I fiddled with my fingers, as if to show everyone I was occupied and not answering any questions. Finally, the few oddballs that remained staring my way glanced back to the podium.  We began to sing again.
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    “Lunch!”  The same chubby man stood up and rang an almost comical dinner bell.  Unbelievably, the people bought it and rumbled out of the hall.  I remained in the meeting center, left with feelings I couldn’t quite describe.

   Once the people had filed out of the main room, I picked myself out of the chair and went straight to the little black box.  My fear of the death it held hadn’t quelled.  But I had to do this. 

     “Hey Kenta.”

     There was no reply.  Not that I expected any.  My hands trembled.  This.  Is.  A.  Bad.  Idea.  I willed my feet to move, but my entire being was in lockdown.   Fear that was long delayed was seeping into me.  But I had to finish.  “Call this disrespect for the dead.”, I muttered, knowing that Kenta, on his throne, was looking at me, his head tilted in quiet amusement and wearing a calm smile. 

      I forced myself to move, shaking as I lifted my draped arm.  My fingers closed around a beautiful looking flower and with it’s vibrant red face bobbing at me in approval, I reached down it’s lively green stem and curled my hand around it’s base.  With a deep breath, I closed my eyes, and tugged hard.  The flower sailed from the rich brown soil, free from the earth that bound it.  I stood there, huffing a little, holding the flower by it’s stem, supporting it’s beautiful head with my the palm of my hand, its roots streaming down into empty air.  I could almost hear him roaring in laughter, slapping his thigh and doubling over the arm of his throne. 

     Footsteps alerted me that the many, surely disapproving people, were coming back.  “Sorry..”, I whispered to the magnificent bud.  With an apologetic look to the flower, I bent over my knees, reached down into my leather bag, and stuffed the beauty into my sack.  Wincing as the leather weighed down on the flowers head, surely crushing it, I sat upright once again and turned my attention to the stage, which had been once again filled with mourners.  No one noticed the missing bud. 

     I sat, quiet and detached, through the rest of the ceremony.  Although I was the least emotional, I was the only one who could see him.  Know what he’s feeling up there.  I smiled, then looked up to my best friend who was cruelly taken by cancer only a week ago.  I had never properly sent him off.  “Goodbye.”

4 years later.

     My fingers were rested atop worn wood, my ears were filled with the pleasant sound of birds chirping, and my eyes were captured by a vibrant red flower, which had festered a friend, which had grew into a family of roses.   I smiled.  Four years ago, I had been sitting in my church on a rainy day.  Now….

     I slipped my hand into the handle of a pink and green flowering can, gripped it, then tipped its contents over into the potted plant that sat before me.  “You grow forever with me, kay Kenta?”.
  
    It had been painful at first, like rubbing salt in a wound, but now it was almost a refreshing routine.  Not like saying a painful goodbye, not anymore.  Kinda like saying a happy hello.