By Matilda Harjunpää
They had our funeral on a Saturday, I’m sure to the great disappointment of your mother, who must have wanted a godlier day for her only son. This had my mother all over it, the joint service, the Cure song. Forever a sucker for young love.
We stood there, your hand on my hip, as the pastor read personal details that described neither of us from a Post-it buried in his palm. I wondered who he got the notes from. I didn’t have a name for the feeling in my stomach.
When the mourners had coffee in the rec room your mother scolded your sister for trying to take more than one cookie and for talking too loud, and my mother asked for her coffee black, stirred it until it was cold and undrinkable. I thought to say, we do turn into our parents, we do, we do, but tipped my head on your shoulder instead, because what difference would it have made if I’d said it?
After they all left you asked if I wanted to hang out or something, for old times’ sake, and I asked if we should go see the show at the crematorium, and you said No, you fucking ghoul, something like a movie, but then you laughed like a young Marlon Brando, so I said okay but only something short and only if we got a row to ourselves, because there had been a lot of people for one day and I had places to go.
Matilda Harjunpää writes in Helsinki, Finland. You can find her on Twitter @matildahrjnp.
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