When the brown beehive of hair bobbled my way, I knew I was in trouble. Up until then I’d been dodging adult attention: the stares, the hugs--some clumsy and loose, others rib-crushing and breathless. The coned hairdo belonged to Mrs. Leitner, my kindergarten teacher. I did not expect to see her here. She had always yelled at the class, screamed at me. When I could not back away any further, she said. “It’s time to say goodbye to your father.” Up until then, everything had been dull and fuzzy, as if peering through rain-soaked glass. When she grabbed my wrist with her bony, taloned fingers, I was jolted into awareness. Could now see detail in the path I was being dragged: the ironed creases in the men’s trousers, the glint of a penny someone must have dropped, the suntanned tint of shiny nylon-ed legs, and the wrinkled up kleenex Aunt Linda had been dabbing at her nose, now held limp by her side. Could hear the priest’s booming voice, “too young to die,” the whispered condolences, “heart attack,” the nervous laughter from my older cousins, hear “he was only forty-two, ”and “those poor girls.”
I was now six feet from the casket, and Mrs. Leitner was not letting up. All I could see was the tip of my father’s nose, the same nose everyone said I had. Same eyes. Mouth, too. Some said I shared his sense of humor. Others his mischievous side. Suddenly, the smell of the peace lilies and orchids were explosive and spun me back into a cloud of dizziness. Or was it blissful oblivion? I dug my heels into the ground, though the shag carpeting was slippery and my patent leathers couldn’t gain traction. Skidding on a patch of ice, it felt--with no rail to grab onto, no support. I shifted my hips, stretched out my arms, grasping at the air for balance. I didn’t say to Mrs. Leitner what I wanted. Didn’t say: This is the last place I want to be. My father’s dead face is not something I want to remember. Didn’t say: No one invited you, so why are you here? Didn’t say: No one in my family even liked you, especially my father. Nor did I say: When you die, I will never attend your funeral. Instead, I drove my heels in more, made divots in the carpeting. Floated back into my safety net of distraction and escape, back where none of this had happened, where everyone was alive and well, where my greatest worry was whether I received an “A” or an “A-”on my spelling quiz. I was not moving forward, not here, not for my former teacher, not for anyone. There was one more similarity she may not have known. Stubborn I was, like my father.
About The Author
Susan Triemert holds an MA in Education and an MFA from Hamline University in St. Paul, MN. She has been published or forthcoming in Colorado Review, Cheat River Review, Crab Orchard Review, A-Minor, Evening Street Review, Pithead Chapel, 101word stories and elsewhere. She lives in St. Paul with her husband, their two sons, and never enough animals. Twitter: @SusanTriemert