The youngest son

The speaker is a tall, lanky kid. His hair is a frizzy mop, carefully styled to look like it isn't styled at all; when it sits across his forehead, his eyes are just barely covered. He looks through the curtain of his bangs out at the crowd, and he smooths the hair back away from his face. His glasses are black horned-rim, the kind that went out of style in the early seventies, but hipsters have brought back recently (and the Army never cycled them out of fashion.) They're nicknamed "birth control glasses" by soldiers in Basic, but this kid wears them unironically, and by the looks of his girlfriend in the audience, they aren't an obstacle.

He takes a deep, shaky breath, and finds his notes on his Iphone. He takes a moment to look at the crowd before diving in.

"I'm a little nervous," he admits, glancing down at his notes and back up at the crowd. We smile, forgiving him his nervousness and waiting to hear his message. "This is my first funeral."

At those words, I feel a familiar pressure building behind my eyes. It's a heavy announcement. He continues.

"I never expected that the first time I gave a eulogy, it would be three weeks into my sophomore year at my dad's memorial service."

Fuck.

That kicks me in the gut.

His voice cracks, and tears cloud the vision of his phone. He removes his glasses, pinches the bridge of his nose, and takes a deep breath. He looks over at his girlfriend, and she nods to him, encouraging him to go on. I watch all of this, rapt.

"I've never lost anyone before. I have all of my grandparents. I've never even had to deal with the loss of a pet. Forgive me, but I don't know how to grieve."

I lose the struggle to keep my own tears back, and several make their escape down my cheek. That shit is heavy.

I'm not here for the deceased. I'm not here for this kid, I don't even know his name. I'm here for the dead guy's brother; he is one of my best friends, and I am the only one of his friends to come to this funeral. My guy and the dead guy were estranged; the man who was a father and a brother was not good to the man I call friend. I never liked the dude, but a lot of people in this room loved him. My guy has cycled through guilt and anger at the suicide, but thankfully he hasn't shouldered any blame. He mourns the loss of his brother, but truthfully, he mourned the loss of his brother a decade ago. He's now mostly mourning the loss of a father to the nieces and nephews who remain.

The youngest son continues to eulogize with several lighthearted stories about his dad. We laugh not because we're supposed to, but because the tales are genuinely funny, and the kid is an excellent speaker. It makes sense, since he's a theater kid by his own declaration.

His attitude shifts to almost normal and not mourning. He has begun to engage the crowd with minor call and response, almost like a stand-up comic. He isn't making light of anything, he's simply evolved from a nervous, crying son left behind into a confident storyteller.

"Do you like this suit?" He asks the audience casually. "My dad bought it for me. He insisted that I had to have a suit for my first ever Homecoming Dance. He bought it for me in the eighth grade. It's the only one I own, and the last time I wore it I had such a great time. Now it's a funeral suit, and I don't think I can ever wear it again." His voice cracks again, and he steps off the stage.

Just like that, he shifted from lighthearted storyteller to bringing us back to the tragedy that he is suffering. We all suffer with him as the reality sets in that his father is gone, his father chose to go, and his best friend now fits in a ceramic urn on a table in front of the lectern.

Acceptance is the final stage of grief, and I don't know how long it will take him to get there. What I do know is that kid may not know how to grieve, but he sure knows how to get us to do it with him.