Turtle Heaven
I must have been about ten when I attended my first funeral. People say you always remember your firsts—your first kiss, your first boyfriend, your first job—but even on that blistery summer day so many years ago, I had no idea I would remember Leland’s first turtle.
The day started normally enough. I got up, dressed, took a brush quickly through my long hair, ate breakfast and was out the door. I wasn’t much of a cartoon watcher even then, preferring the feel of moist earth beneath my hands over the numbing, blaring effects of the television.
But today I knew a secret.
My cat had died just a few months back so I sort of understood why Leland was upset over the death of his pet turtle. I say—sort of—because a turtle could hardly be compared to a cat, could it?
And yet, there Leland was, standing over the newly scooped mound of dirt in his back yard, tears dripping from his eyes like April rain.
I didn’t know what to do. If Leland had been a girl I would have put my arm around him. But I had no idea what to do with a boy. I surely couldn’t hug him.
And so I stood there, watching his tears drip and darken the mound below. He must have finally sensed my presence because suddenly he was wiping his swollen eyes and looking away.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“Just came to play,” I lied.
“Can’t you see my turtle just died?” he answered.
I knew his turtle had died. Things travel fast in a neighborhood of children. But I didn’t say anything aloud.
“He was my best turtle,” Leland sniffed. “The bestest.”
All I could remember about Leland’s turtle was that it was average in size, and sprouted ugly fat legs that looked like the Jolly Green Giant’s fingers. I knew it had a shell. But all turtles had shells. I also knew that Leland’s turtle was named Geoffrey—at least, that’s what I’m remembering now. Besides, I knew Leland had never owned a turtle other than Geoffrey so how could he be the bestest?
Still, I felt sorry for Leland, albeit a bit curious about how he’d buried him.
“Let’s have a funeral for Geoffrey,” I offered, trying not to stare at his blood-shot eyes.
“A funeral?”
“Sure. We can invite all of your friends.”
“Just boys?”
“No, everyone.”
“Well, I guess.” He brushed his foot against the drying soil. “I think Geoffrey would like that.”
For the next few minutes I was rounding up the neighborhood kids. “Now, you can’t laugh,” I warned them. “You have to be quiet, like at a real funeral. And cry.”
“I ain’t gonna cry,” one of the boys said.
“Well, then just look sad,” I offered.
That seemed to satisfy him, and the eight of us walked over to Leland’s for the funeral.
Leland had been busy while we were gone. He had placed some daisy’s on the grave and there were a few folding chairs sitting in two lines next to the burial ground.
We sat.
Leland stood next to the grave.
“I have invited you all here to hear about the life and death of my pet, Geoffrey.”
There was a small snicker behind me, but I didn’t look back.
“Geoffrey was a good turtle. He came when I called. He ate all of his food. And when I was sick he would crawl in bed with me.”
I wondered how Geoffrey could climb up the bed but didn’t say anything. I also wondered how long Leland had to wait before Geoffrey came to him.
“Sometimes Geoffrey got lost. But I always found him. One time he was hiding under my clothes. Another time, dad found him the garage. But today he was just sitting on my bed waiting for me.”
Leland sniffed, and a large tear dripped from his left eye.
“He was dead. Mom says that his spirit is in heaven. She says he is playing with the other turtles. I have never heard of turtle heaven, have you?”
The boy, who had snickered in back, raised his hand. I suddenly felt like I was in church. “My dog is in heaven,” he said.
I thought about my cat. Her name had been Tiger. And perhaps it still was. But of course it was. Pets died and went to heaven just like people did. And one day when I died I would see Tiger again.
“I put toilet paper at the bottom of the shoe box,” Leland continued, wiping at his nose. “And when I put on the lid, I said good-bye. I think he heard me. I brought Geoffrey out here…”
Leland pointed to the mound of dirt and flowers as if we couldn’t tell.
I stood up and walked to the mound. On the way to the funeral I had gathered a couple of dandy-lions from my front yard—anything else would have meant death from my mother. I placed the golden weeds on the spot next to Leland’s flowers and gathered in all the strength I had to give him a hug.
He didn’t refuse.
We stood there for only an instant, me holding in the mixture of tears and boy dirt and he, well, he was probably wondering how to get my long brown hair out of his wet face.
In the next moment, we were apart, and he was thanking me with his eyes. Tears were streaming down my own cheeks. I licked the drips with my tongue, tasting the
salty-sweetness and wondering about my own cat buried in the back corner of my mother’s vegetable garden.
I wondered if she was really in heaven with the other cats, jumping and playing, and clawing God’s silky white curtains in the golden throne room. I wondered if Tiger was happy. And in that moment I knew. It was like a warm light entered my soul and stood there.
People say you always remember your firsts, and perhaps that’s why I remember the funeral of Leland’s turtle Geoffrey. But then again, it may have been the singularity of the event.
Searching my soul another answer comes. Maybe the best one, but surely not the one I expected. As normal a turtle as Geoffrey had seemed to me, in Leland’s eyes he had been of the marvelous, fantastic and special variety. And this turtle had been loved, yes, loved just as I had loved, and would forever love Tiger.
Not even death could change that.
