Elias' Bones

Elias’ Bones 

Today is the anniversary of the day we buried Elias’ bones in the local cemetery. The day I sang hollow words at his funeral, standing beside his grave. The day I cried tears that burned invisible scars into my face and dripped into the dirt that held him. The day it became real, and I knew I would never see him again. It was what he wanted, but I carried a guilt, a slow, simmering guilt that dampened the world around me. People consoled me, but it felt empty, wrong. It was what he had wanted, but nothing could change the fact that I had killed him.  

Despite the years that have passed, it is still clear in my mind. I try not to think about it, but visions of the moment it happened still swirl around my head if I've had too much to drink. We’d planned it for months, Elias, and I. Elias had known he was dying since the year before, our last year of high school. I had known he was in pain. He had told me it was a relief when he was finally diagnosed. To know that the pain was real, that it had a name. He knew that his condition had no cure. He knew that life would only get harder and more painful, the longer it was drawn out by doctors, and his family. He’d asked me then. If I'd help him. If I would be there.  

I was morbidly impressed by how much Elias had already thought it through. A deadly mushroom was to be his killer. He said he’d read a book where they had done something similar. When the day came, the two of us went up to our spot on the reserve, with a bag full of mushrooms. We said our goodbyes, sat holding hands in the grass. Elias smiled at my teary face and wiped at my cheek with his thumb. He put his mushroom in his mouth and chewed, swallowed. I followed suit, with my own, common, mushrooms. I watched in silence as Elias paled, closing his eyes. His breathing shallowed, and he lay back, eyelids fluttering open. Sweat formed on his forehead and his upper lip. I moved quickly to his side, as he opened his mouth. Saliva pooled and trickled out of the corner of his mouth. I shakily wiped at it with my sleeve. The last thing he said, smiling up at me, was “Thank you”.   

I was struck by how peaceful he looked, laying there in the grass, daisies surrounding his head like a halo, a small smile on his face. When I see him, in memories, in stories, in my dreams, he looks like he did in that moment, finally at peace, and wearing a crown made of little white flowers. 

The funeral was a week later, not enough time for me to truly process his death. My memory of it is dream-like, the years blurring the reality of the day. It feels sort of hazy, through the lens of tears. I remember wandering through the crowd in the church, as if in a daze, with anger, sadness and guilt swimming in my chest. Anger at the speeches that were given. The speeches that told us they wish he could have lived longer, even just a few more days, weeks. Selfish b******s. They knew how much he suffered, and yet they would have him stick around just for them. Guilt swirled in my stomach, because a part of me felt the same, still desperate for him to be here beside me. Relative after relative stood up on the stage and told us we shouldn’t be sad for him, because he was with God now. I almost got up and left, but I stayed for him.  

For Elias. 

Elias, who had only been dead a week. Elias, who didn’t believe in God. 

He had an open casket. I’m not sure if he had wanted it, but I doubt they had asked him before he died. I knew I had to see him, one last time, but I almost wished I hadn’t, because he looked so small, much smaller than he’d looked when he was alive, only the week before. Seeing him like that, pale and waxy, I desperately wanted to climb in there with him, bring the warmth back to his skin, and the life back to his bones.  

I’m not big on spirituality, but I believe that a part of me, a part of my soul, or my heart, or something, found its way in there with him. Even now, all these year later, I still feel that I buried a piece of myself with him that day.