A Few Words - Daniel Hagan

My uncle would have hated all this. How the entire church reeks of excess—Aunt Barbara sobbing hysterically, the stench of perfume permeating each pew. Elaborate lily arrangements adorning both sides of the altar. In fairness, he wouldn’t be thrilled to find himself inside a coffin either. A big mahogany eyesore parked at the front of God’s house.

His portrait, blown up so the whole congregation can stare into the blue of his eyes, rests on an easel near the podium. He’s younger in that photo, his hair a darker shade of gray. His liver not completely overcome with cirrhosis.

I glance over the crumpled piece of paper in my fingers, scattered memories scrawled on college-ruled lines. Father Flanagan’s request that I say a few words seemed rather misguided. “He didn’t have any children of his own,” the old priest noted in the days after Mick passed. “And you were like a son to him.” Catholic guilt will put you in some tough spots. If I’m being honest, I don’t believe I can adequately condense my uncle’s life into a speech.

There’s a tug at my pant leg. “Daddy, I’m bored,” my daughter whines in a whisper.

As I contemplate whether handing her my iPhone would be in poor taste, I can practically hear my uncle snickering. “Can’t blame the kid.” He’d be checking his watch, wondering about the score of the Celtics game and whether there’s any pastrami left in the fridge.

“Daddy, I’m REALLY bored.”

Allison comes to my rescue, pulling a mini Etch A Sketch from her purse. “Here,” she says to our daughter. “Why don’t you make a pretty picture for Daddy?” We share a brief smile, and I’m back to preparing this impossible tribute.

“Is she a keeper or what?” The rasp of my uncle’s voice lingers. He was there at the bar the night I met my wife. In fact, I may not have spoken more than two words to her without his nudging.

Maybe that’s where my remembrance should start? With us sharing a pint? Probably not the most sensitive place to begin—Aunt Barbara warned him about his drinking decades ago. I wonder if she’ll take issue with the Blood of Christ being offered at Mass. This parish serves merlot, if I recall correctly from Easter.

A pianist plucks through the opening melody of “One Bread, One Body,” and we morph into a single-file line shuffling toward Communion. Some guests stop to place their hands on the wooden box containing my uncle. “Jesus,” I hear him groan. “Like a bunch of buzzards.”

Father Flanagan greets us each with a small white wafer. “The Body of Christ.” When it’s my turn, one of the altar boys jerks his head aside to avoid sneezing on the Eucharist. Must be the lilies. I’m not entirely sure how much Barbara spent, but I can tell it was a good day to be her florist.

The procession continues until everyone is situated back in their pews, Jesus’s body and blood stirring in our stomachs. Father Flanagan waits quietly for a moment, then rises to the podium. I’m running out of time. My piece of paper offers no answers, no entry point.

“Before we conclude and entrust Mick’s soul to God’s mercy,” Father Flanagan announces into the microphone, “his nephew has prepared a brief statement celebrating his life.”

Sure, we’ll go with that interpretation.

I genuflect before the altar. Shake Father Flanagan’s hand, turn to face the congregation.

Guess I’m winging it.

“Thank you all for being here today.” So far so good. “Well, what can be said about my uncle Mick?” If I knew, I’d tell them. “He was... a complicated man.” Aunt Barbara stops wiping tears and looks at me like I just asked her to do long division in her head. Where do I go from here?

“I suppose we’re all complicated people deep down.” Allison slowly replaces our daughter’s Etch A Sketch with her iPhone. Somewhere behind me, the altar boy sneezes again.

Perhaps no one would notice if I took a running leap and launched myself through the stained glass windows. Of course, that might make it difficult to carry out my pallbearing responsibilities.

Another sneeze erupts from the altar boy, this one accompanied by a gasp of collective horror. I’m relieved by the suspicion that, somehow, it has nothing to do with me. Twisting to my right, I discover the boy scrambling on his hands and knees. A candle lies sideways, its flame buried in the cellophane wrapping of a lily pot. A stench stronger than perfume fills the room. Father Flanagan hastens across the altar. Mick stays put.

Poor bastard. He would’ve loved this part.