Jim Gill is an autistic writer and poet living on Gumbaynggirr country. His writing appears in Oystercatcher Two, Meniscus, Varnish Online, Verandah, Dark Poets and elsewhere. Jim’s poem, ‘The Stranger’, was shortlisted in the Sutherland Shire Literary Competition. Jim holds a PhD in Archaeology, as well as degrees in Cultural Heritage and Education. He currently works as a primary teacher.
A Suitable Farewell
He is dressed for the occasion, a neat black suit, a crisp white shirt, and a tie like a hangman’s noose. He has never liked wearing a tie, or a suit. They always felt so restricting. Constricting. For him, it was always a case of the fewer clothes the better. If he had his choice, he would wear a singlet and shorts every day of the year. And thongs. Or, even better, no shoes at all.
And yet, now he wears shoes, tight on his feet, and a suit, and a tie, which, to be honest, is really fucking infuriating. Of all the times in your life that you should be able to be comfortable, he thinks, this is the one. Surely comfort wins out over tradition, or social expectation, or whatever you want to call it.
The people are packed tightly into the room. They are trying to be silent, given the circumstances, but he can hear them whispering to each other. There is an occasional sniff, a throat being cleared, and someone coughing, over and over. Go cough outside! he thinks.
The large double doors are wedged open, a futile attempt to capture a non-existent breeze, and the air is thick with the heat of pressed bodies. They must be sweating under those clothes, though at least the black might hide the sweat patches. The pews are full to bursting and people are standing in whatever space they can find. Many of them fan themselves with their copy of the Order of Service. It’s a weird thing to do, almost offensive, but what does he care?
He takes in the high, vaulted ceiling, the stained-glass windows; there is a beauty in it, from a purely architectural point of view, but he always feels awkward in such places. Churches and hospitals; two places he has avoided like the plague. If it was up to him, he would have chosen somewhere outside. Probably the beach, or a hill overlooking the ocean. There is something about the vastness of the ocean, so unknowable, that makes him feel small, and yet also alive; connected to the world. It’s the place he felt most at peace.
The hushed murmuring of the crowd dies to an expectant silence as the minister steps up to the lectern. The flowing robes look so comfortable, much more his style, though perhaps a little ostentatious. He wonders if they are as sweaty as a suit.
The minister is unfamiliar, someone known to his parents no doubt, but simply an old man to him. The stranger speaks, vaguely, of God and love and peace, and then more specifically of a young man, who lies before him in a suit and too-tight tie. How absurd to have someone describe his life in such a way. Someone that doesn’t even know him, reducing him to a handful of half-truths: a happy, quiet boy; a good friend to those who knew him; a reliable partner to his ex-wife; a loving son.
Next, his mother speaks. Her outfit has been carefully selected, probably bought specifically for this occasion. It was forever a competition between her and her sisters. Her voice is strained. The person she describes is no one he knows. There are traces of himself in there, but the things she chooses to focus on are none of the things that define him. The childhood he remembers has been twisted in her recollection, conveniently edited, shit bits redacted. The dreams and ambitions, the career she describes, none of them were ever his. To him, his job was just a job, a way to pay the bills, to do the things he enjoys.
His father doesn’t speak. That man has never been one for speeches, and why change now? Sitting there in the front row, wearing his wrinkled suit and stony-faced mask, his father would never let himself be so weak as to cry. There has always been an air of disapproval around him; now it is directed at his son’s decision to die.
His ex-wife doesn’t speak; he doesn’t blame her really, but he does think it strange that after a decade together they don’t even talk anymore. How is it that you can know someone that intimately and then simply ghost them? Well, jokes on her, because this is the ultimate ghosting. He wonders if she is sweaty like everyone else. Probably not. She looks stunning of course. Hair perfect, makeup applied strategically so as not to run when she sheds a few token tears. How he ever ended up with her he did not know.
His two close friends are there, though they are standing up the back near the open doors. He doesn’t blame them at all; they would be just as uncomfortable as he in a place like this. They have each foregone the suit and tie, their brightly patterned shirts a shining beacon in a sea of black. Of all the people here, those two know him best. He would forgive them for being confused, angry even, for what they are witnessing. There is no part of him, the real him, on display here today.
As the last words are spoken, as a prayer is given to a god that he has never known, he wonders how he would choose to go if he had the choice. He imagines a small group of people, the close friends and family that knew some part of him, standing on a hill overlooking the ocean. They are wearing bright colours; Hawaiian shirts and floral dresses. No one is wearing shoes. He imagines the people laughing and telling funny stories about his life, moments that no one else noticed, but which meant something to them. He imagines the wind carrying his ashes on the salt breeze, drifting apart into millions of tiny particles, becoming one with the sea.
Such a thing would be a great deal more comfortable than this bloody suit!