Page 75 of The Infinite Light of Dust

“Never gonna change either.” He hits my arm.

My mom looks at him with disapproval. “You better quit that.” She hits him a little harder than he hit me.

“How many times have I heard that?” Silvin hugs my mom and she breaks into a smile.

She always liked him the few times they met, despite the fact that he could be an offensive prick with a crass sense of humor. His beyond dark sense of humor kept us all laughing through the lowest times in our lives, though, so I always liked him too.

“How are you, man?” I ask casually, even though I know he’s probably hurting more than most of the people in the church right now. Like I had been at the last one.

He clears his throat and blinks his red eyes. A puff of air blows from his cheeks before he answers, “I’m good. I, uhm—I’m good. I’d rather be in Vegas playing slots with a porn star andhermoney.” He laughs awkwardly.

“Wouldn’t we all,” I joke back with him, careful not to add weight to his mind. Sometimes it’s better to stay on the surface where you can stay numb. “Come sit down with us? Or do you already have a seat?” I ask him.

“It’s not a fucking concert, Martin,” he says and laughs, coming to sit down next to my mom.

Even though its masking deep sadness, Silvin’s twisted laughter is the only inkling of happiness in the whole church. The ceiling is practically dripping with grief. The kind of sad that just bleeds into you and never washes away. It shows on you. The weight of everything you’re carrying just flows through your blood and sits right on top of your shoulders.

Silvin sighs and leans back into the wooden pew heavily, trying to give it some of the weight inside of him. His dark eyes stare ahead, lost in some memory that refuses to go away, denying him any chance of peace. He’s too young to look so old. He’s aged drastically since we all called him “Baby Face” in our best Southern accents. He’s from Mississippi and had looked about fifteen during our first deployment, but now he looks older than me.

Baby Face has grown up a lot since he had chunks of what looked like raw tuna thump against his face as they fell from the sky. It took my brain another explosion to digest the horror of realizing the plague of chunks falling from the sky were pieces of human flesh, not fish. I was standing so close that a finger with a wedding band on it landed against the toe of my combat boot. Johnson’s face had changed when he turned to look and realized that his battle buddy Cox was no longer standing there. I saw something in his eyes, the smallest gleam burning out as he lifted his weapon from his waist and kept on moving. He never mentioned Cox again, and after that he sat in silence as Cox’s pregnant widow cried at his funeral.

Come to think of it, this funeral feels eerily similar.

I look around for a clock. Isn’t it almost time to start? I want to get this over with before I actually have to think about what we’re doing here. Funerals are all the same, at least in the military. Outside of it, I haven’t been to one since I was a kid. Since I left for basic training, I’ve been to at least ten funerals. That’s ten times that I’ve sat silently in a wooden pew and scanned the faces of soldiers staring ahead, the straight line of their lips well practiced. Ten funeral homes full of shuffling kids who didn’t understand life, let alone death, crawling at their parents’ feet. Ten times that sobs broke out in the crowd. Luckily, only half of the deceased soldiers were married with families, so that meant only five sobbing wives whose lives were ripped apart and changed forever.

I often wonder when the calls would stop coming. After how many years will we stop gathering like this? Will it continue until we’re all old and gray? Will Silvin come to my funeral or will I go to his? I always come, as does Johnson, whom I spot out of the corner of my eye. Stanson, too, who is holding his newborn son. He’s still in the Army, but even the few of us who are no longer active duty still come. I flew to Washington state a few months ago for a guy I barely knew but whom Mendoza loved.

There are more people today than usual. Then again, this dead soldier was liked more than most of us. I couldn’t think about his name, or say it in my head. I didn’t want to do that to myself, or to my mom, whom I’d picked up in Riverdale and brought with me to Atlanta. She always liked him. Everyone did.

“Who’s that lady there?” My mom coughs, her finger pointing at a woman I don’t recognize.

“No clue, Ma,” I whisper to her.

Silvin’s haunted eyes are closed now. I look away from him.

“I’m sure I know that woman—” she insists.

A man in a suit walks onstage. Must be time.

I cut her off. “Ma. They’re about to start.”

I scan the pews for Karina; she must be here by now. She said she was coming right at the beginning so she wouldn’t stay the whole time. Next to me, my mom coughs again. She’s been doing that more and more lately. She’s had this cough for about two years now, maybe more. Sometimes it goes away and she’s rewarded for quitting smoking. Other times it’s wet and she gripes about how she might as well light up a Marlboro. I’ve argued with her half my life, since I was ten and I heard her doctor tell her she was going to lose a lung if she didn’t quit. I look down at her as she rubs the tissue along her lips, coughing deeper. Her tired eyes close for a second before she goes back to staring blankly at the flower-covered stage. The casket is closed, of course. No one wants these children to see the barely recognizable body.

Fuck, I have to stop. I’ve spent god knows how many hours with medical professionals tasked with fixing me, so you’d think I’d be better at keeping those thoughts out. They never work, the techniques they teach us. The darkness is still there, unmovable. Maybe I should tell the government to get a refund on my therapy? They paid for it, as they should, but did it work? Clearly not. Not for Silvin, not for me, not for the body in the casket onstage.

Count down, they recommended when my mind got this way.

Count down and think of something that brings you joy or peace. Feel your feet on the ground, know you’re safe now, they repeated.

I think ofherwhen I need peace. I have since I met her. It only lasts so long until reality sets in and I want to punish myself for the fact that she’s not in my life anymore, and I walk deeper into the darkness.

I don’t get the chance to finish my self-therapy session.

“We’re going to begin if everyone can take their seats now.” The funeral director’s voice is soft and unaffected. He probably does this a few times a week.

The room quiets and the funeral begins.

After the service we stay sitting while some line up for a last goodbye. Silvin catches my eye and points upward, like he’s trying to tell me something. As I look up, someone taps me on the shoulder. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I briefly hope it’s Karina. Even though I’m sure it’s not.

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