You know Pastor Johnson was the best man I ever met, He had such a good heart..........
She was speaking of my father, the pastor of our church. She wasn't the only person with good things to say that day. One after the other they had gone up in tears and said the nicest things. They told stories of how he'd helped them and their children, of how many children in the community he had put through school, how he had reduced the crime rate in the community by reaching the youth. Someone called him a pillar in the community. They really were gonna miss him...
I wanted so badly to go up there and speak, I wanted to tell them of the pastor Johnson I knew, to tell my own stories of my father, to share some of the many memories I had of him.
I wanted to tell them of when I was five, how my father had come into the room and seen me in one of my moms shoes laughing with my sister, how angry he got, how he had beat me that day till I bled, how the first time I heard the word faggot was that day. I wanted to take my shirt off and show them the scars. I wanted to tell them how he had locked me up in my cupboard that day.
I wanted to tell them of my mother , of her scars, her miscarriages, her trips to the hospital. I wanted to take her up there, clean the makeup on her arms and show them the most recent bruises. I wanted to tell them how she cried every night, how her screams had become our lullaby.
I wanted to tell them of the night I had walked past my sisters room, how I'd seen him on her. How I had looked in his eyes and seen rage and hatred, how much she had screamed that night and every night he went to her room. How I had seen my mother on the hallway that night clutching her chest and how we had just stared at each other silently
I wanted to tell them of Friday night, how we were at the dinner table, of how he had grabbed his chest and my hand, of how I snatched my hand away from him, how we all stood there and watched him die, how my sister had held my mother back when she picked up the phone to call the EMS, how we had waited thirty minutes before calling the hospital. How I had just looked at him lying dead on the floor and thought of how much I was afraid of him. I wanted to tell them how we had just sat together all through the night cos for the first timle the house was quiet.
Then I heard the strangest sound you could ever hear at a funeeral, someone was laughing hysterically. It was my mother, the entire church was staring at her, then my sister joined her, i couldn't help myself I joined them. We were laughing so loud but we did not know why. Probably it was because finally we could or just the freedom we felt. We finally stopped laughing and we knew what we had to do next . We got up walked out of there, drove to the house took some things got back into the car and just drove off.