An Ugly Truth

*Forward warning: This work of fiction depicts topics of self-harm, death and grief. Help is available if you need to talk to someone. The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline is 800-273-8255.*

I wasn’t sure what I was doing here exactly, other than having the strongest urge to walk into the small, busy funeral home. I just knew I needed to pull over on my way home from work and walk in on what I was assuming was a full-fledged funeral. I timidly slide out from behind the wheel and do a quick inspection of my hair in the side mirror. I grimaced at how my unruly curls were sweeping across my face and getting caught in motion on my clear gloss. I looked as exhausted as I felt, and realized I was wearing a pale, almost white, yellow dress with deep red-orange flowers embroidered scattered in no particular pattern. My favorite, but so not appropriate for any funeral.

I popped my trunk open and rummaged around my second closet of emergency outfits (doesn’t everyone have this?) and pulled out a deep navy long cardigan. While it wouldn’t cover my entire dress, it would help me blend in a sea of black better. I lock my door and walk toward the entrance, still unable to really comprehend what drew me into this funeral home tonight. I’ve passed by it everyday on my way home since I got this job three years ago. Nevertheless, I thought I could at least pay my respects and continued on.

Thankfully for me, it looked like the funeral had just begun. I was able to slip into the back, unnoticed by anyone. I take in the bright floral arrangements scattered at the front, surrounding the coffin like a shield. I look around for any sign of who’s funeral this is, when I spot a small pile of programs laying on a table near the door. I reach over to grab it and see a simple card with a large yellow marigold printed in the center. Below a single name and dates of birth and death are listed with a single quote.

Marigold Leilani

3/14/1992-8/4/2021

“You left me many memories;

Your love is still my guide.

And though I cannot see you,

You're always by my side.”

The simplicity of the card is beautiful. The name doesn’t sound familiar but I am drawn to the simple quote and floral pictures. I look up and realize that the floral arrangements up front are all marigolds of different colors. A beautiful homage to her name, I’m sure. I feel my throat tighten and tears of sympathy threaten to be released. The room is full of people of all ages, proving to me that she was well loved in her short life.

Until now, I had been so busy observing the room that I failed to listen to the funeral director. But movement toward the lectern captured my attention again as a woman with dark curled hair and puffy eyes stood before the microphone, head teetering between looking at her shoes and the crowd. She looked like she was on the verge of crying before she even started and I wish I could have hugged her pain away. I said a silent prayer to give her strength so she could speak.

An audible breath was let out and she looked up and scanned the crowd, a soft smile sitting on her sad face. She unfolds a piece of paper, but doesn’t even bother looking at it, as it seemed she was speaking from the heart.

“My name is Daisy for those that do not know me. But if you’re sitting here, then you knew my sister, Mari. You knew that she had a big heart and even bigger passion for helping anyone and everyone. She once literally gave a stranger the shirt off her back so the man could go inside a Burger King to get out of the heat and eat. Thankfully, she always carried her spare work outfit and was able to.

“I’ve never once seen her ignore a homeless person on the streets, and she often volunteered her time at the homeless shelter and animal shelters,” she paused, obviously getting choked up again.

“She was a good person who didn’t deserve what happened to her. But she always had a brave face on and rarely asked for help. I didn’t know she was in pain and hurting like she was, and I was her best friend. I was her sister and I failed her.” She blinks rapidly, trying to force the tears to hold off.

I am a sympathetic crier, I’ll admit it. That’s why I thought it was even stranger I was drawn to this funeral, but my heart was hurting for this girl who lost her sister. I felt her pain and understood it. Maybe I was drawn here because I was needed to help comfort her. In my line of counseling, I’d talked to thousands of clients who were dealing with grief. It’s overwhelming, but rewarding to help them through it. Maybe this was my purpose, to help her get through this and show her the light at the end of the tunnel.

Shakily, she carries on with her beautiful message. “When we were younger, about 7 and 10, we both hated our names because they were flowers. Mari always talked about wanting to change her name, which is when she started going by Mari. No one would know it was for Marigold. But what she didn’t realize was that our mother named us after her and my father’s favorite flowers because they wanted to watch us bloom. They wanted us to feel the same joy looking at the flowers as they did.”

“When our mother got sick last year and passed, Mari was so upset that she insisted we get each other’s flowers tattooed on our collarbone as a reminder of our love for each other and our family.”

What a tragedy, I thought, but beautifully symbolic. I thought back to my own tattoo I recently got, also on my collarbone, but of my favorite Edgar Allen Poe quote, “There is no exquisite beauty without some strangeness.” I was trying to remind myself it’s okay to be different, and that I am still beautiful even when I don’t think I am.

“Mari really lived up to her name. She was bright, hopeful and radiated positivity. Thank you all for being a part of her life, and thank you for coming to help us celebrate her life.”

I was curious to know what happened but her sister never said. Never mind that... Maybe she’ll open up when I speak with her after it’s over. After another similar and heartfelt eulogy by her best friend, the funeral director got back up.

“Thank you for attending. We will end with an open viewing before proceeding to the cemetery. After we finish up there, there will be a small reception in the lobby to celebrate Marigold’s life.”

Out of respect, I stayed seated to allow the actual friends and family to say their final goodbyes. Some were crying, others silent and solemn. Still others whispered prayers, some were whispering about how shocked they were to hear she ended her own life by driving her car into a concrete road barrier on her way home from work. I was shocked. Oh, a true tragedy! Certainly her sister would need consoling, and I wanted to invite her to visit with me to help her get past the tragic loss of her sister.

However, it was warming to see that this woman made such an impact on those around her. If only she didn’t do what others said she did. Did she not see how loved she was, or how important she was to others? It sounded like even her smile brightened days and she always knew what you needed before they did. I wish I could have helped her get through her grief and troubles. Maybe if I had, this poor young soul would still be with us.

I got up to search for Daisy to speak with her as I noticed the crowd began thinning as they funneled outside to the cemetery site. No one paid me any attention, probably assuming I was just a friend. I noticed she was talking with the funeral director, and carrying a large pile of different colored marigolds. Probably for the casket as she is laid to rest, I thought. What a kind gesture.

I stood off to the side, not wanting to interrupt. I noticed that no one was currently viewing the body, and thought that it was only right that I pay my respects since I did crash this funeral unexpectedly and while Daisy was already preoccupied. As I walked closer, I felt a flutter of butterflies in my stomach that I normally felt when at funerals. Knowing a person has died and actually seeing their lifeless body are two totally different things, one I still hadn’t quite come to terms with.

My heart felt heavy as I got closer and closer, and I felt uncomfortable with the feeling. Why was this so hard? Did I actually know Mari somehow? Did fate bring me here? I racked my brain for any memory of this woman. I came up with nothing, but maybe after seeing her it will hit me how I know her and why this is so hard all of sudden for me.

Oh, and hit me it did. I took a look at the alabaster skin drained of life and pain came rushing to me. It hit me squarely in the chest and left an empty hole as I stared at her once dark bouncy curls and saw two collarbone tattoos sticking out of the almost white pale yellow sundress with embroidered flowers. She looked so familiar because it was me. I was laying in the casket in front of me. I swiveled around, searching for anyone. Screaming and trying to capture their attention so they could see it was a mistake because, hello, I’m standing right here! It must be a joke, it HAS to be. But no one turned, no one acknowledged me, no one saw me. Oh, what did I do? Why why why why why. I run to my sister, my sweet sister Daisy with her mascara streaming down her rosy cheeks, begged her to see me even when I knew the ugly truth in front of me. A truth I couldn't undo, couldn't take it back and hug my Daisy once more. I had crashed my own funeral. Tears streamed down my face endlessly.

Because I, Marigold Leilani, was dead.