When I was little, my Mama told me that when her Daddy (not the bad one who hurt her, but the good one who wasn’t technically related to her but still gave her piggyback rides and candy like all good daddies should) died of cancer, she heard a snip. A snip that was brief yet still ran around in her head for a few minutes. She told me that that snip was the sound of God cutting her Daddy’s umbilical cord, the invisible one that God had attached to all of us. Then Mama would get sad for a few minutes, before she would poke my belly button and say “I think that this little girl’s tummy must want a cookie.”

You probably would have hated my Mama, and she probably would have hated you. She was too loud, too abrasive for someone like you. Mama made sure that our behinds were always red, and that bits and pieces of soap were stuck between our teeth. You got into fights with teachers who asked you to stop writing in pen. 

I’m glad that Mama isn’t here right now. If she saw me now, with short hair and a flat chest and a hormone pulsing through my body at unnaturally high levels, she would…I don’t know. She would do something: disown me, beat me, stuff me into pink dresses until my breasts and hips formed the hourglass figure that she passed down to me. I know that it’s selfish to think about myself when I’m at your funeral, but you aren’t here to scold me for not being considerate, the way that you used to when my garbage missed the trash can. 

I never heard a snip when you died. I was listening to “Like a Virgin” with my headphones, pretending the city lights shining bright outside my window were shining on me. You were at your apartment. I danced around in my underwear, my socks providing enough friction for me to slide across the wooden floor. You were probably crying, with your face scrunched up and red. I belted out off-key lyrics. You put a gun to your head. I let out a high note that woke up my neighbors. I ate a ready meal. I crashed on my sofa, smiling and content. I woke up to the police banging at my door at four a.m. I quickly hid my stash of weed underneath my bed before I went to answer the door. You shot yourself. 

Mama would have hated how quiet you were, until someone gave you an order that didn’t directly line up with what you wanted to do. She would have hated your potty-mouth and inability to socialize with strangers. But she would have loved the baby-blue dress you’re wearing right now as you’re lowered next to your Daddy and Mama, the ones that tried their best but just couldn’t connect with you. 

Your cousins and older sister and aunts and uncles are crying. Your sister’s dog isn’t wagging her tail like she usually does; she can sense that something bad has happened. They don’t know about us, only that I knew you well enough to come to your funeral. When I spend too much time looking into your casket, they glance at me with annoyed, confused looks. At the party after the service, I tell everyone that I was your “good friend” rather than “boyfriend.” 

You didn’t go with a snip or a bang or a Like a Virgin!, but you’re still ringing in my ears.