Need For Weep

I suffocated myself at a funeral

I’m still 19 years old.

It also took me nineteen years, to finally be in the settings of a Chinese Buddhist funeral. And it was the first funeral I've ever attended.

The person, who left the world eternally, was my father’s godfather, which made me his god-grandson.

For some reasons unbeknownst to me, I had stayed in his household for some months when I was about nine or ten. I don’t remember much, except for his golden radio voice, the wrinkled skins, and the calming smell.

He worked at the kindergarten when I was there. He was a gatekeeper, a messenger, and a respected elder (It is, after all, a small coastal village where everyone knows anyone).

He was a faithful Buddhist. And he worked restlessly for the Buddhist temples and communities in the surrounding area. His family said that he had been working long hours the day before his passing. They also said that he had been laughing and being happy the night before.

The day of his funeral welcomed a group of reputable abbots. They chanted scriptures, burned incenses, tapped drums.

I wanted to cry, multiple times, during that day. The tears were swirling in the eyes, the emotions were twisting in my mind. Some people were already crying, sobbing, shivering, and trembling. Everything was perfect. The crying would be justified, and there was nothing to be ashamed of.

But I didn't let it loose, instead, I trapped the salty liquid and the souring feelings inside of me, for no good reasons. Perhaps I was not ready, perhaps I didn't get to know the man enough to cry for him, or perhaps crying is just not the way for me in dealing with death.

Back in 2008, a girl, who was a classmate of my, died in a car accident. It was shocking. Tragic, even. She was a nice girl, good grades, good looks, good manners. We were never that close as friend, but I still felt something for her when I heard the news.

The school later had held a memorial for her, but I didn't attend because I didn't know it was happening until it was too later.

I wondered if I did attend the event that day, would I have shed tears for her? Or would the then thirteen years old me remained unmoving?

Would I still be the predator of my own emotions? Would I still exile my tears? Would I still—

Alas! More excuses, more lies, as if the world needed more of them.