It was a cold and icy day in January when Paul's funeral was held. Needless to say, it seemed appropriate. If I was going to suffer, I might has well suffer physically, as well as emotionally. I got dressed and left the house. My relatives were fighting some more, as usual, and they weren't going to comfort me, as though they ever did.
When I reached the cemetery, I went up to Paul's mother, who patted me gently, while standing by the gravesite. There were enough people there, mainly relatives, but I'm sure they were distant since they didn't seem too emotional. There was a cluster of men standing a few yards away from the graves talking animatedly about what seemed like business. Two older women turned towards each other and fussed with each other's mascara and other makeup. It seemed like, for them, going to funerals was a routine thing, and their biggest concern was that they were well-dressed. Paul's brothers were there, but they seemed to show little emotion, but I'm sure they were putting up a brave front. It seemed like they channeled all their feelings into slapping the snow off of their jacket sleeves and carseats. They were enormous. Paul was right--as big as he seemed to me, he was the runt of the litter. They then came on over, and stood behind his mother, near me.
The priest began speaking, and then everyone turned silent. Paul's mother starting crying, though it seemed like she was trying to control her cries. I thought I had better do the same, but I couldn't help thinking, "I am never going to see him again, I am never again going to see him again." I bit my lip.
I tried not look towards the coffin. I couldn't stand it. I wanted to remember Paul as he was alive, not dead. I instead looked at the gravestones, at least they reflected some kind of tribute, some kind of honor. "PAUL ROBERT MAGYAR" had already been etched, next to the stone reading "LOUIS MAGYAR". He was to be buried next to his father.
Then the funeral party broke up. Paul's mother gave me a light squeeze, and Paul's brothers helped her into the car. I thought I better leave while I can still maintain my composure. If they can be brave, so can I. Paul would want me to be brave.
I left the cemetery through the back way, through the bleak, icy grounds, an isolated place back to my family's home. I wondered if anyone would be angry at me for leaving the house without giving notice, or would they be too busy fighting to care. Either way, nothing could hurt me more than what I had already witnessed.