Something, That Feeling (pt. 2)

The truth is... my grandfather isn't a moron. I made him out to be one simply because I couldn't properly describe my state of mind otherwise. His lack of civility was not nearly as dramatic as I had made it. In fact, he was quite warm, and comforting. He knew I didn't mean what I had said. I stand corrected: he knew it wasn't directed at him, but he knew I meant every word. After I left him I walked to the deli at the excuse for a corner. I hated New Jersey because it was either all highways, or back roads that hadn't seen asphalt in years. In other words, you would either be hit by a car, and killed, or nudged in the leg and sue. What a place. It didn't take me long to cross the highway, but then again I wasn't really too concerned with being killed. I was hardly in the mood for caring about much at all. The deli was nothing I expected; the guy at the counter was white, but maybe that's the norm in South Jersey. None of this has much to do with anything. The point I want to, eventually, make is that the walk to the store and back is a blur to me. That entire day is just a mess of cigarettes, tissues, and God and his people. I couldn't tell you who I spoke to, if they had cried, what time I left, or why I said yes to being a pallbearer. I do remember the conversation with him though. I remember that as clear as day. I couldn't figure out why I remembered it, but I did. My younger cousins wouldn't leave me time to think about it. I will always be the oldest, though, so that will always be my place. At some point my father, who was slowly retiring from being the one to hold himself together, glanced at me. It may have happened quickly, it may not have, I don't remember. In either case, he glanced, and then nodded. It wasn't a 'how you holding up nod,' or an 'almost time to leave' nod. He nodded because he knew I had settled in my place; grown into my shoes. He approved. I'm not sure where I'm going with this, but my grandfather listened, and understood, and my father approved. 

It was an odd day. I remember feeling bad, but not for anyone's loss. I felt bad because I didn't feel anything. I wasn't sad, I wasn't confused, alone, brokenhearted, nothing. I've been in that situation more than once, and I always wondered if it had anything to do with my father, with the 'martyrdom,' as it were. 

"That's it." I said it aloud, right as people were paying their respects - funny how we were all brought to our knees, yet had no common ground to kneel on - without concern or consideration. The guests glanced over, but my father still approved; he once had shoes to fill as well. It made me feel slightly better, and if not better then something. Something was good enough for me.

"Jason, are you alright?" That was two, and it had only been an hour or so. I hate these 'functions.' 

"Yea I'm just fine. Listen I... I need a cigarette."

"Aren't you going to pay your respects."

"I'll let someone else take my spot in line, you know, keeping with the martyrdom and whatnot." She had no idea what I was talking about. No one did. No one could have...