I fucking hate funerals.
I know this is a redundant statement, because in all honesty, who (besides morticians, funeral directors and just creepy people in general) likes them? It’s like a really bad party where everyone gets together to reminisce and cry about the stiff, regardless of whether they were a good person or a worthless shitbag.
In my lifetime I have only been to six funerals, and yes, they were ALL good people. I would not have gone if they hadn’t been. I am sometimes honest to a fault, and I despise hypocrisy. I have said before that when certain people (who I have the great misfortune of being related to) snuff it, I’ll subsequently throw a party to celebrate that they are no longer around to poison society. At the very least I might attend the funeral to make sure they are dead.
Two months ago, I went to the memorial service of a dear, dear friend who was practically family. During the service, people were asked to share any stories or memories they had. This led to several church members approaching the pulpit to talk about how much of an inspiration Raul was, how strong he was in his faith, what a firm believer he was, etc. This I will not, or ever, challenge. In the face of a terrible and, eventually losing battle, Raul was strong and never lost faith that God was with him, no matter what was going to happen. He was a great kid and would have made a great police officer.
As a child, Raul was a right pain in the ass.
My parents were the best man and matron of honor at Raul’s parents’ wedding. My only memories of that day were waiting FOREVER at the park for the goddamn pictures to be taken already, and getting my chair upchucked (with me still in it, thank you very much) by some drunken fat guy trying to catch the garter. That shit hurt. Fucker. Anydangway, we have pretty much known Raul since his in-utero days. He was an adorable kid with eyes full of mischief, chubby cheeks and a bucktoothed smile that told you he was up to something and you’d better damn well run or hide the valuables.
Whenever my parents announced Raul and his parents were coming over, we’d groan internally and quickly go through the house, putting the breakable stuff on high shelves and locking our bedroom doors so we wouldn’t get our stuff stained, broken or set on fire. He is the only four-year old I have ever seen ride a full-sized mountain bike. He was driving before I even got my learner’s permit and left more girlfriends than I can count. He repeatedly asked my dad when they were going to steal a cow and make tacos.
Once, when I was around 8 or 9 years old, I was lying on the living room floor on my back watching TV. Raul was about 3 or so, and consequently weighed about thirty pounds, or whatever the average weight is for a toddler. Cue the running jump on little toddler feet, followed by a powerful leap, landing a perfect cannonball on my exposed torso. I deflated like a Goodyear slashed by a crazy ex, and at that moment, truly understood the meaning of ‘having the wind knocked out of you’, except it felt more like ‘having the wind (and any other internal organs) mercilessly pounded out of you by an insane and rabid child’.
He was stubborn, mischievous, occasionally obnoxious, always entertaining. He was also sweet, brave, and unfailingly kind.
I will always think of him as my guardian angel.
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