a child's wake
June 19, 2003, 11:26 pm

I've often been told by people that I'm the most cheerful person that they've ever met. I put on a good game face, even if I'm down. Completely whack-stressed out? I'll be sure to smile and still wish you a good day while I'm mentally tabulating how many seconds I have to breathe before the next crushing deadline. Having a bad day? I try to disguise it as best as I can; my students can tell my abrupt shift in moods better than they can identify similies. Ask pretty much anyone who knows me what my temperment is like, and they'll say something along the lines of, "Damn, she's always perky."

So when faced with a situation like I was this evening, at a child's wake, I have to keep the perkiness in check.

I'm scared to death of funerals because I'm tempted to say the wrong things. I'm scared to death of "lightening the mood"; not intentionally, but that's just because it's the way I am. I say nothing because I don't want to sound cliche, and I don't want to say, "How are YOU doing? It's great to see you!" when obviously, the person I'm talking to is not doing well, and it's awful to see anyone under such circumstances.

Tonight, as I entered the stuffy funereal-French-Colonial-at-an-attempt-to-look-homey-but-let's-face-it-it-isn't-working-because-there's-a-casket-in-the-room parlor, I was greeted with a picture frame filled with the cherubic face of my late baby cousin. Sydney in a pumpkin costume; Sydney playing a baby piano; Sydney drawing with crayon on a laptop; Sydney laughing; Sydney with no hair, with hair, then with no hair; Sydney with sunglasses...the collage had her in all different poses, all images of a kid that I barely knew, but has affected me because everyone around me is affected. My cousin Angie grabbed my arm in a too-familiar grip that had been learned in her scores of finishing academies and whatever else rich people put their daughters through, "How ARE you, Jessica? It's SO good to see you!"

I nodded. She's hurting more than I am. I diverted my attention to a table strewn with cards: pamphlets for donations to the Children's Cancer Center, a card entreating me to visit www.mcm.com to leave a memory for the departed loved one's family, and a prayer card. The prayer card, I made a mental note to myself, was interesting because a) Sydney was never baptised and was from a strictly agnostic if not atheist family, and b) "than" was used instead of "then" in the prayer.

But I cannot comment on these things out loud because I am not here to be sarcastic or silly or myself, but to be strong, and I was.

I expertly moved through the crowd, offered hugs and "I'm sorry"s to the parents; offered "I love you"s to my uncle and aunt. I looked at each of the thirty pictures in frames around the room; Sydney with her sister, Kelsey; Sydney with her Pooh doll; Sydney in the bathtub. I saw the flowers we sent; brightly colored Gerbera daisies, roses, hydrangeas, you name it...it was next to the

casket.

Closed.

Small and white, clean and bright, it wasn't happy to greet anyone.

I hate open caskets, but the presence of that closed tiny box slapped my face. It was too small. No person could fit into that box; nothing alive could fit in there, and it held a child, and there's something so wrong about that in the grand scheme of things. It seemed a toy box with lavender and white roses on top. The colors of the flowers surrounding it were all so BRIGHT and vibrant and exactly the types of flowers a three-year-old would find attractive...

My Uncle, Sydney's grandfather, came up to me and touched my arm. "Smile, Jessica, for gosh sake's. Please smile."

"I, um, don't know how to be myself at these things," I offered to my Uncle who hasn't slept for three days, "I, um, afraid to do or say the wrong thing."

He nodded. "You're my girl."