The salt continues to sparkle and I remember my uncle saying, "Snow... that's appropriate for a man born in Edmonton, eh sis?" to my mother. She did not reply. I remember walking through the snow, stepping into other people's footprints to make walking a little easier. I was twelve and hadn't dealt with death yet.
I remember that I didn't cry over my grandfather, save one time the night I found out. At the funeral I sat beside my only first cousin. I was quite pissed off at her. She was talking during the funeral.
Afterwards we went to McDonald's for lunch. Grandma was out of it. She's still out of it now, too. I don't think she ever got over Grandpa's death, even though apparently, he wanted to divorce her.
By now we've passed the toll bridge and I can see the bay more clearly. The water is an odd hybrid of purple and blue. I never understood why. Oceans are supposed to be blue, not violet. I can see electric towers dotting the coast in the distance, and a nice, healthy layer of smog up near the mountains. I decide that I hate those companies for not being more sympathetic towards the individual. Everything is about Money, Power, Greed.
The bay scenery turns into a highway lined with trees, and then into a highway lined with advertisements. Among them is one for pest extermination. I don't say or feel anything, I simply make a mental note of it because it seems important. Perhaps because Humanity is the real pest and needs exterminating more than anything else on this planet. I don't know.
We move off the highway and on to a street on a hill. We pass by three or four cemetaries, and then a golf course. I make a mental note of that because I think it's funny as fuck.
There is an old neon light that I am pretty sure has burned out by now that says PET CEMETARY. It says some other things, too, and it all feels like an awful cheesy horror movie. In some ways, it is.
Dad pulls up to the front and we walk inside, with my brother holding... him. The building is a light blue color and looks not unlike a house. Behind the counter inside, there is an overweight man in a grayish t-shirt. His eyes are sunken in behind glasses, and his blond hair is pulled back into a ponytail, though by the looks of it, he is balding. He reminds me of my ex-girlfriend's father.
My own father and the man talk for a few moments. I let my eyes wander around the "office"... across from the man is another desk with papers and other miscellaneous crap strewn over it beside a computer. Next to the desk, there is a shelf with different styles of urns displayed on it. Behind the man are pictures from what I assume are his children. A colored picture of Winnie the Pooh. A mask of what I interpret as a bear. Nonsensical drawings and patterns that I've gotten too old to understand anymore.
The man begins to type on a typewriter. Not an old one, a newer one, somehow. It looks like something out of the 80's. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. The place has been in business for fifty seven years, according to my father.
After the man is done typing, another man comes and escorts us to the "chapel". He is much younger and his skin is darker, but he is also overweight. I wonder if they are father and son. We follow him outside to a small bulding labeled CHAPEL with a cross on the door. I realize that it's a shed and I want to laugh at how stupid this all is, but I can't. Inside of the shed, there is a couch and a bench. The walls are covered in pictures of cats, dogs. I see a bunny rabbit, and one guinea pig. He doesn't look anything like mine did.
In the far end of the shed there is a table. On the table, there is a statue of either The Virgin Mary or Jesus. I wasn't paying much attention because I don't believe in either of them. We sit for a while and my dad begins to talk about how all of this is hitting him really hard, how he feels responsible for the death, how it was all his fault, etc. I don't say much, and when I want to cry, I hold back because I know I have to be strong right now. Drama class was good for something after all.
After a half an hour or so passes, the second man returns and tells my dad it is time for the cremation. Dad wants to watch, so he leaves with the man and my brother and I remain in the shed. I ask to hold his hand, thinking it will help him because he is shaking a little, and I believe him to be crying. Some tears make their way down my face, but I don't make any noise. I have to be the strong one right now. I have to be the rock.
Dad returns eventually, and his eyes are red. He is trying not to cry. When he's calm, he starts talking again. My brother wants to see the cemetary so we all go outside. Dad and he wander around, looking at the tombstones, and I stay to one side. It seems somewhat disrespectful to me to go traipsing around over someone else's grave, even if they were not thechnically a person.
Periodically they return, and leave again. While they are gone, I think about calling my friend for a few minutes. His number is the only one I can remember because we have been friends for almost six years now, and if I did not remember, I would be terribly disappointed in myself. I wish that he were here. When dad returns again, he tells me about how his father was cremated, and how they made an awful mistake with his father: they scattered the ashes. By now I can smell the furnace working, and I see tiny white hair-like fibers all over my black sweater. For a fleeting moment, I wonder if they belong to my guinea pig. My clothes used to look the same way after I was done playing with him. I tell myself it is just the equivalent of lint, and I pick each of them off.
The man comes to get my father again when the cremation is done. I wait near the furnace. The man emerges from the dark room followed by my dad, and in the man's left hand, I notice a small plastic bag of what looks like metal nuts and bolts. I must not have been thinking clearly, because only afterwards did I realize that it was Chip.
I sit outside again. A while later, I am in the car, and I am holding Chip. By now he has been turned into the contents of a simple pine box. I don't want to hold him. I feel uncomfortable holding it. I feel uncomfortable when dad refers to the box as Chip, because there is a part of me that still refuses to believe that he's dead. There is still a part of me that is going to take a sidelong glance at the place where his cage was in our living room; a part that is going to want to say, "Hey Chipchip!" and find him some carrots when he starts squeaking.
The only problem with this is that there is no squeaking.
I go to my room and I pretend that none of it bothers me. I sign onto AIM and put up an away message, since we have plans to go out to lunch. Dad finds me and asks if I've seen what he's done with Chip. I say yes.
He's put the box on the display case in our living room, and put a picture of Chip in front of it. He fails to understand that looking at him still hurts; that I took down the pictures in my own room when my parents told me he was in a hospital because I knew he would not make it and I knew that I would not be able to look at them without crying.
I did not think that I would miss him this much.
The moral of the story is, spend time with your pets/friends/family memebers/whatever while you still can. They won't be around forever, no matter how much we'd like to believe they will.
Rest in Peace, Chip.
May 23rd, 2000 - August 16th, 2004