"My First Student Funeral"
by Miranda Keskes

My First Student Funeral

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        It’s the first day of summer. I hobble in heels across the cracked church parking lot, the tops of my nylons tight against my waistline. I see a cluster of black-clad teens near the entrance. One of them takes a long drag on his cigarette before stubbing it out with the heel of his scuffed dress shoe. It’s David from first hour. We lock eyes, and he nods at me. I nod back.

        I join a sea of somber faces in the overcrowded foyer, the perfume of fresh flowers mingled with sweat, leaving me woozy. I keep my head down and squeeze into a space in the back pew next to a gruff-looking man smelling of smoke and spearmint. He gives me a small nod. His eyes are puffy.  

        Above the altar at the front of the church plays a slideshow on a large screen: Ryan fishing. Ryan four-wheeling. Ryan skydiving. Ryan: vibrant and alive. 

        The funeral itself is a blur. Memories drown out the speeches. Ryan was in my sixth hour theater class: the last hour of the day. The class was packed with 30 students, mostly senior boys who were capitalizing on the fact theater could be taken in place of a traditional senior English class. Ryan was among them, but he didn’t complain or cross his arms, refusing to participate. He was thin, on the shorter side, with dark curly hair, a genuine smile, and kind blue eyes. Theater wasn’t his thing, he said to me once, but I appreciate that you love what you do.

        Afterward, I wait in line to give the family my condolences. The line is long and moves slowly, but too soon, I’m standing in front of his parents. 

        The parents of a son who died in a motorcycle accident at the age of 17. 

        “I’m so sorry for your loss. I was Ryan’s theater teacher. He was a kind student.” 

        He had his mother’s eyes. They light up as she tells me how much Ryan loved the day we did old-age makeup. “He kept it on all day!” She laughs, putting an arm around Ryan’s father. He and Ryan had the same slight frame. He nods. “He looked just like his grandfather.” 

        The three of us stand in silence, contemplating the image of Ryan with wrinkles and age spots.

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Miranda Keskes is a writer and educator whose fiction appears in Blink Ink, Pigeon Review,  50-Word Stories, The Drabble, and elsewhere. Her latest fiction is forthcoming in the anthology Of Rust and Glass and the journal Does It Have Pockets? She lives in Michigan with her husband and their two boys. She writes the Substack publication, The Teachers’ Lounge. You can find her on Instagram at miranda_keskes_writer.