The Funeral

By Jean Falkowski
       Cars, new cars, old cars. Trucks, old and new. Station wagons. The parking lot was full of automobiles. I felt a deep sense of gratitude; I did not think that many people would come to the funeral. After stepping thru the double wide doors, dread fills my whole being. A kind man escorts us to the chapel. I can hear the melancholy music playing softly in the background. Upon entering the chapel, the sight of the closed casket and the sweet smell of lots of flowers overwhelm me.
       “They said the front part of his head was missing,” I hear someone whisper. Feeling numb all over, I make my way to the pew where my family is sitting. My small cousins—six and eight years old—sit as in a trance. “They saw the body before the police got there,” someone else whispers.
        As the preacher starts talking, I find myself going back to the scene; it’s as if I am watching the whole thing from the sidelines. The yelling is loud. They are fighting again. He raises his hand to hit her but stops, he can’t hurt her. Slowly he walks into the kitchen and closes the door. With shaking hands, he reaches for the gun. As if hypnotized, he sits by the table, puts the shotgun under his chin and pulls the trigger.
        A touch from my sister brings me back to the room. Crying and shaking Why? He was only 28 years old!
       Many years have passed since that day and I am still afraid of guns. I know that a lot of people like guns, they like to shoot them, they like to hunt, and there are even gun clubs. I have nothing against that, but I would ask them to remember that a gun is a weapon, they can and do kill people. That is why they were invented.