A Snowy Funeral

No one knew funerals could be so revealing. In this cold, snowy ground laid a girl no one ever knew. Sure, plenty of people thought they knew her, even her husband thought he had revelations about her, but he never knew her entirely. The truth was, no one knew her. The only person who knew the truth was her journal and now me. At the funeral I was not alone; I was surrounded by hundreds of others. Everyone had their own story about this girl. Everyone had some memory, but none were the truth. As we all sat there on the freezing February afternoon crying and staring at the bitter white face of Joy. She looked so peaceful, so at ease, not a care in world. I was wondering if she was watching from heaven now, if she could see everyone who would miss her, and all the tears that were spilt over her. One by one people left, and soon it was just me and her best friend; her husband and her journal. I stroked her blond hair and her white cold face. She was wearing her favorite dress, a simple white cotton dress that covered her like a gown. The white cotton gauze dress wrapped her so delicately; it summed her up so well. She, like the dress was simple, and easy, always willing to go where the wind pushed or pulled her, just like this dress. I wondered how someone so beautiful could die so soon. She was not only beautiful on the outside she was just as pure in the inside. I wondered if she would be mad at me. I remember her telling me in college while we were still engaged, she wanted to be cremated and scattered on the beach. Oh she loved the beach, and she looked like she had been born for the purpose of living on the beach. As soon as I would park the car she would hit the pavement running until she made it to the sand. Then she would walk so softly across the sand like she was walking on clouds, her eyes closed with a smile on her face, every hair on her body would be standing on end with excitement, and anyone could see her spirit come alive. She used to explain to me that the ocean waves were like her heart, so powerful, strong, and consistent, so beautiful, capable of anything if people would just let it take its course. No, I do not think she would be mad, just disappointed; disappointed because she always was trying to embed her love for the beach into me as well. She would succeed when I was with her, but when she was gone I had no desire for the beach. It is just not the same without her; to me the beach comes alive when she is on it. Her smile makes the sun shine on the beach for me; it was not the sound of the seagulls, but the sound of her laughter on the beach that brought me coming back. Everything is grey without her, even the beach.

One thing I know she would be mad about is me reading her journal, this is a fact. She used to protect it with all her might. When she would walk in and I would be holding it she would scream like bloody murder and violently grab it from me. Then she would run to the corner of the room with anger and horror in her eyes, still spitting words of anger at me. Her eyes would turn to fire and she quickly became larger than me as I sat wilting on the bed. I never read one word of the journal; sometimes I would just hold it and stare because it was so magnificent to her. IT was her, everything she couldn’t tell me, it was there, everything she thought, even if she didn’t mean it, it was in the journal. But the real reason I loved the journal was because it made her so mad. You see, in every area she was such a peaceful creature, except for when it came to this journal, and I loved seeing that. I loved to see her angry, as horrible as it sounds, but that was my precious Joy. When she would burn with frustration you could see her neck begin to turn red then it would run into her face, and her face would become red, then her eyes would squint as if she was getting ready to shoot someone with a laser. The anger was so raw, so particular, and so passionate. That was Joy in one word if I had to say it, passionate. She even slept with passion. So many times in the middle of the night I would wake up from her yelling about saving people, or not getting enough work done. She was always thinking about other people and how to help them, even in her dreams. Dreams are a funny thing, they are usually so unrealistic, so unimaginable except for the one dreaming them. Well my friends, not for my love. Her dreams were her reality. The funny thing was she turned everything into a dream, and then succeeded at it. She said it was her dream to go to college, she did it, it was her dream to marry me, she did it, she said it was her dream to drive a motorcycle, she of course did it, once she even claimed it was her dream to open 25 orphanages all in different countries, and that little women did it. Of course she gave 100% of her one dream to me, to be scattered on a beach, and I couldn’t do it. I was the one man standing in her way of fulfilling her last dream. It makes me want to cry but I know what she wouldn’t want me to. She would cuddle me in her skinny, tan arms, and hum love songs to me that I would sing to her in college. She would laugh softly and calm me and I would stare into her loving blue eyes, and feel her smooth face. She was always so peaceful, always so calm, always so loving. Why did my love have to leave me, now we are no longer on her golden sun beach, but she is now sleeping forever in this cold, snowy ground.