I'm 11 and at a funeral. Someone asks me if I'm okay. I don't reply. No one else speaks; we have plenty to say but no one to say it. That's why we hire a pastor. What a miserable job.

It's hard to know what to say sometimes, and even harder to know when to say it. Sometimes it is better to say nothing at all. I think a lot when it is quiet; I think a lot when it is loud too, but about other things.

The casket is lowered into the ground. Is it better to have it open or closed? Those that that look want it open; those that turn away want it closed. This one is closed. I look at it anyway. Am I supposed to crying. I think people would give me funny looks if it were appropriate.
There are other kids here, too. Some are weeping, some aren't. All of them are confused.

The pastor says something. It is probably very poignant I feel, except I don't.

The drive home feels the same as the drive there, except it isn't.

When we get home my parents go to their room and I go to mine. I go to sleep early. I have school tomorrow. Breakfast is water and toast. The water is cold and the toast is burnt.
My mother asks me if I am okay. My dad left earlier in the morning for work. I am okay.

People mill about in school. People talk, as do I. What they talk about doesn't matter, what matters is that they talk. Silence is only kind in solitude.

"What are you looking at?" Kids have a lot of attitude. Or maybe adults just don't express it. I turn to the buzz cut talking to me. His tone is not inquisitive. "Not at you, certainly." I can tell he is not really interested in the content of the response, but my tone probably made him angry. Kids are not very good at hiding what they are feeling. He repeats the question, angrily this time. His bravado and unoriginality make me angry too. I suppose we are no different.

He shoves me into my locker. We are about the same size, height is the only thing that matters when you're 11. I shove him back, maybe I am angry. I don't know anymore, but I do want to shove him.

I sit with the other boy in the principals office, both our faces with bruises and tears running down his. I feel proud that I do not cry.

"I do not care who started it." The principal is angry, but I doubt he actually is. "You are both to apologize to each other and I will be speaking to your parents later." I stand up and offer my hand to the buzz cut to my left. He takes it. We shake and make up. I think he will
hold a grudge. This is my first time in the principals office.

My parents spoke to the principal later. They said I was going through a rough time because of the funeral. I can only assume the principal nodded understandingly and told them not to let it happen again, much the same as my parents are telling me now. Their faces and voices are angry but their eyes are tired. I tell them that I realise that looking angry enforces the message but there is need to because I have already decided I will not go to the principals office again. They tell me not to be such a precocious little so-and-so and go to my room. That night I dream and in this dream I am talking and someone is listening.

This morning the toast is not burnt but the eyes are tired and the water is still cold. Today there are smiles, kisses, and hugs.


The casket is slowly lowered into the ground, it is allowed to drop the last foot or so. It is not very dignified. I must cry, social convention demands it. My mother is also crying. I have a feeling that tomorrow the toast will be burned. The pastor says words and I listen to them. They are apparently heartfelt words but I know he cares not. I think about the gravedigger. He digs knowing that the holes will be filled with rot and blight. He digs knowing his work will never be beautiful or appreciated. His job must be miserable.

I have plans today. I leave the house early and walk. The street is not very busy, I can hear the gravel beneath my shoes and stop walking whenever I feel like it. I like to write and I like words, but all too often I am hesitant. Writing is difficult because I do not like the things people say and do, but it is too self indulgent to lament and too trite to write impulsively. Creativity makes a good first impression but I can never become well acquainted.

I still think a lot. Walking is good for that, even moreso when I can hear my footsteps and my footsteps alone. My mother did not make toast this morning and did not talk to me or even leave their room. I feel that it should bother me, but perhaps I am young and carefree. The sound of animals and insects slowly filters out the soft sounds of the suburbia. I come here often, ever since I decided that I liked it.

I like to write but I do not write here. I think here. The lake is beautiful, much like many other things. I do not like this place because of what it has, but what it doesn't. You could interpret that as the general dissatisfaction of a teenager, but I would disagree.