the memorial

It is Saturday, again. This is probably a marker for Love’s family as it marks the day of the crash (or it could be Friday, depending on how you view wee, early hours). But Tuesday is my marker. So let me go back to

Saturday, October 29, 2016 The Memorial, and The Scene, part 2

After leaving the scene of Bo’s accident with my anger, my first thought was, I should’ve stayed, taken several drinks at J Wags, and just skipped the damn Memorial. But I knew I shouldn’t drink…because drinking is “bad”…no because I still wasn’t eating and I figured empty stomach plus drink did not mix well. I was afraid I would die, even though I wanted to die, kind of.

I was afraid I would be late to the Memorial. I didn’t know if there was going to be a body. I didn’t really know the difference between a Memorial and a Funeral though I had been to both types of events in the past. I’m not that familiar with shit like this. I was hoping there was no body. I was hoping more that I wouldn’t see anybody…that I “knew.” It was possible that old/current lover would be there. Remember, St. Pete — everybody knows everybody. We all had worked together. So, what I was really saying was I hoped to see no one that we worked with — -otherwise, I don’t really know anyone in St. Pete.

Well, my fear was realized because I was late….for parking and seating. I had to park way down the road. Then I have men eyeing me as I walk toward the church. I walk slowly to the church, feeling that my knees could buckle or that I could go into full panic attack, or pass out at any step.

I step into the church. Breathe. Look around. Breathe. Walk. Breathe. Look around. Breathe. The room was PACKED…with rows of football players in their uniforms. Go Indians (I would say this to Bo, jokingly, as he left my house on Fridays)! But there were Largo players there also (from his previous school).

I end up sitting closer to the front than I would have imagined. I scanned the crowd repeatedly for familiar faces. I was so fucking nervous. There were pictures up. A LARGE pic of him and his wife. A small pic of him and his mother. I stared at the pics. Again, I had taken no pics of him.

The family walked in. I stared at them. There were new ones that I didn’t recognize and new ones that I recognized (from my online browsing). They sat on the opposite side. This meant I had access to their faces most of the time.

I sat there thinking how disgusted I was to be there for Love’s fucking Memorial. His fucking Memorial. His ass is dead. Why is he dead? Because he just had to fucking work. I am looking at images of my dead Friend. I am looking at people there to talk about my dead Friend. I am looking at my dead Friend’s family. Gross.

The pastor was the wife’s brother, I believe. He had talked at the candlelight vigil. He was in their wedding pictures. I sat there in a bubble thinking about how ludicrous this was, being in a church, with a pastor, when Bo and I used to talk about the church and religion and black people and St Pete. Neither of us went to church. Neither of us like St. Pete. There I was.