Pompf. Pompf. Pompf.

My dress shoes tapping the carpet sound muffled and distant to me, yet I try to keep focusing on them. The concrete. A sensation. Something real to tie me to this moment. They call it a celebration of life, but all of my efforts to bear happiness are a dry and empty vine. They keep saying such nice things about her. Sometimes they laugh. Good, they deserve to be happy right now. They need something to bring them through the grief.

But my head stays down. I cannot smile as they can. I want to break free of this pew and run outside. I want to get as far away from this moment as I can. Something is holding me back. Is it some asinine social obligation to be brave for all the loved ones? Maybe I’m just staying here for them.

If I go home now, I do not have to say goodbye. I can go on about my life. I can believe she’s just out at the store. Running a late errand. Hidden from the public eye, she still breathes. She sleeps in a bed, not a coffin.

But I’m afraid of that reality too. There, the sheets I cover myself with will be the cover of shame. That I ran, that I wasn’t there when I should have been. That I didn’t see it through. Maybe if I stay, I will be free from the pain. Released, knowing it is over. She is in the ground, my goodbyes are said, and life moves on.

No one judges me for my grief. No one speaks to me. No one moves about the pews. The air of reverence in the room keeps me safe. I am given my space to work through my issues alone. I am more thankful for the space than those around me realize. They say, in times of grief, to surround yourself with loved ones, but I do not want this. I do not want their touch. I want to break down and hide away.

The pastor speaks her name again. “Ariel Hixon.” I recoil internally. Hearing it aloud continues to hurt me more than I expected it would. It feels more concrete than my shoes tapping the carpet.

She was killed in a hit-and-run. There were no witnesses. They will probably never catch the killer. They aren’t talking about him, though. They’re focusing on her life instead, trying to make happy of this moment. Once they leave these doors, I know, they will gossip and spread rumors about the incident.

They call for all to rise. The pallbearers lift the casket and carry it out of the church. Behind the tears, I can see the life still filling the teary eyes around me. I know they will all move on. I know they will be okay in the end. I wonder if I will. Everyone files out of the church. I move to the guest book and sign my name.

They won’t recognize me. They’ll probably assume I was a classmate of hers, or a friend of a friend. That’s okay. I’ve gotten what I came for; some amount of closure. I will have to bear the weight of my guilt and her life. At least I know there will one day be peace among them, despite my sins.