Let Me Attend My Own Funeral, Mom...

I know I’m not alive anymore.

But Mom… just once—let me come.

Not to disturb. Not to be seen.

Just to stand silently in the corner of the room,

As invisible as the pain I used to carry.

I don’t want to change anything.

Not the flowers.

Not the prayers.

Not even the photograph they chose of me—

The one where I smiled, but my eyes told a different story.

I just want to be there.

At the edge of the gathering.

Watching how people talk about me now that I’m gone.

Watching you…

To see if your silence speaks what words never did.

You always said, “Strong kids don’t cry.”

So I trained myself to hold oceans inside.

Even when my world was sinking,

Even when every breath felt borrowed.

I became so quiet,

That sometimes even I couldn’t hear my own thoughts.

My laughter became a performance.

My smiles were masks.

And each "I'm fine" was a secret scream in disguise.

I came to my own funeral, Mom.

Not as a ghost.

But as the memory that never left your house.

The hall was filled with familiar faces.

Faces I passed every day,

But none ever saw through me.

People said nice things.

"He was such a good boy."

"So quiet. So respectful."

"Always helpful. Always smiling."

But no one talked about the nights I stayed awake,

Staring at the ceiling,

Whispering questions to the shadows.

No one mentioned the weight of existing

While feeling completely invisible.

You entered, Mom, wearing black.

Not just the fabric—but your eyes, your silence, your soul.

You didn’t cry.

But I saw it in your posture—

The collapse hidden inside your spine.

You sat in the front row,

Hands clenched tightly in your lap.

Your fingers trembled when the prayers began.

But still, you didn’t look at my photo.

I wanted to reach out.

To hug you one last time.

To say, "I’m sorry I couldn’t hold on longer."

But I couldn’t.

I could only watch—

And hope that somehow,

In that sacred silence,

My love would reach you.

When the crowd disappeared,

You returned to my room.

It was still untouched—

Books stacked the way I left them,

My jacket hanging on the chair,

The smell of my perfume still faint in the air.

You sat on my bed,

That old mattress I once jumped on as a child.

Now it was just a grave of memories.

You opened my drawer.

And there it was—

The letter I never had the courage to give you.

> “Dear Mom,

> I tried.

> I swear I did.

> But some battles are fought alone,

> And mine was the kind that didn’t bleed on the outside.

> I didn’t want to disappoint you.

> That’s why I wore the smile longer than I should have.

> I hope one day, you’ll forgive me for leaving early.”

You held the letter to your chest,

And this time—you wept.

No more holding back.

No more pretending to be strong.

I felt your tears,

Even though I wasn’t really there.

I saw your heart break—

The one I always wanted to protect,

Even when I couldn’t protect my own.

You whispered something into the empty room.

Maybe a prayer. Maybe a regret.

But I heard it.

Every word. Every pause. Every breath.

I wanted to say thank you.

For trying.

For loving me in the only way you knew how.

And I wanted to say I’m sorry—

For not telling you how loud the silence had become.

So if someday,

The wind brushes your cheek,

Or my favorite song plays on the radio out of nowhere,

Know that I’m there—

Not haunting you.

But hugging you in the only way I still can.

I came, Mom.

To my own funeral.

Not to blame.

Not to cry.

But to say goodbye.

And to whisper—

I never stopped loving you.