Graffiti My Soul

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My problem is that I can’t see myself before the funeral. Really, nothing. Moon’s the one who’s dead, and I can see her clearly. I thought it was supposed to be the other way round. I’ve seen those TV shows where a boyfriend or girlfriend kicks it. The one that’s left behind bawling alone in their room. How they can’t remember their loved one’s face and all the rest of it. Even though they’ve only been cold for about a day. Then they start dragging the pictures out in desperation, or begin to construct their head out of clay. That ain’t my style. I was never one for marking every moment with a snap. Never needed to. Moon’s got the sort of face that’s hard to forget. She’s not the one I’m worried about. It’s my head that needs moulding.

I know how I looked on the morning of the funeral. Black suit from M&S that isn’t one of the old-fashioned ones. Taken-up hems on the trousers, which Mum had stayed up past midnight to do, after she’d finished her paperwork. Two-button jacket that fitted just right across my shoulders. Made me look older than fifteen. Even in that tight moment when I was certain I was feeling nothing, I knew that I was carrying off that suit. I looked tall, and lean, and sharp. If you had been walking down the street that morning, and saw me in that suit, you would have thought I was on my way to a graduation or something. There’d be no chatting about a kid who’s off to bury the girl he’s just helped to put away.

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