Funerals are always in the morning.There is
something about that cold,bleak lifeless place that all funerals
seem to inhabit,that the realest nightmares are about.The skies
grow grey,the rain moistens the land overnight,and the roads
shine.The soils around the grave grow slippery and slide readily
into the dark hole.Clouds build up threatening to pour,but never
do.
I remember one of the funerals I have been to.Country people grow
serious and quiet,lost in their own thoughts.The children sense
the air of gloom and pause their playing.The family and
neighbours and casual aqaintences stand on the graves.Stepping on
the others ,they stand in silence to the intones of the
rosary.There are those whose hearts are being buried in the
ground with the soil,broken and muddy as it falls.While
well-wishers stand with their saddest faces,waiting to show the
others how deeply the death affected them.The subtle scent of
insence tickles memorys of those who have gone before.Locals peer
over the iron fence,curious about the large crowd.Murmers tarnish
the plastic roses.
A child stands at the unblemished toomstone.Gloved hand clutches
cold one,peering into the hole,craining to see where mommys
going.
I stand guilt ridden that I can still smile,laden with the
knowledge that my life will go on and that the empty place will
not be at my table.Staring at faces I meet weary heartbreak on
the mother of the dead.Something is wrong,she cries silently,this
was not supposed to happen.
I stand among the silent listeners at the back.I see the pain of
memory on my fathers face.Memorys I do not share,but cry for
still.
I see the numbness of his sister.She was the one who sobbed on
the casket,the one who wiped off the eye shadow with her tear-wet
thumb.
"She never looked like that!"she cried,"This isn't
her!"Some relation confided with me that they had to embalm
her because of the cancer.I was puzzled,why because of the
cancer,but I did not ask.
I remember focusing on a ring of trees that surrounded the
cemetary.They were conifers,dark green.Their movements had been
silenced for the mass.The wind stayed elsewhere for the day.
She had called when she had learned the news.'Give me the number
for that healer.'she said.Then it was 'could we stay here before
we go to the airport.'(They had raised money to go to lourdes)I
remember my aunties.The three of them had come.I could not tell
the difference between them,exept for the protective air two of
them adopted for their sister.She asked me how was school as she
swallowed her morphine.They said the pain was getting worse,but
she did not want to talk about IT.She called again later on;Magic
had failed,God had chosen not to save her and it was only a
matter of time before she closed her eyes on the world.My father
missed her call.
Now I sit,gripping a cup of lemonade,on the bench in her
garden.Clothes still hang on the line.I see my uncle standing
with the men holding a drink.Her children are running with a
ball,tripping over the uncut grass.Do they even understand?
The paint she painted is still there,her make-up still lies in
the bathroom.Her favorite buiscuits are in the cubard.Her cup is
still next to the kettle.The books she read still lie on the
shelf.My uncle meets my eyes with blank stare.I am another
on-looker on his private misery.He wipes the jam off his
youngests' face.
He is strong,they said.He is being so brave.
But I see his face-his heart lies in the grave.