The room was filled to capacity and dozens of people were being led to another room where they could view the service via video camera. Behind my sunglasses I saw his mother greeting every person with grace; even though she had lost so much she still had gratitude. Or maybe it was easier to whisper "thank you" in their ears as she embraced them than think about her loss.
It was hot. My grey peasant skirt fell around my feet and there didn’t seem to be enough air to breathe that July evening. Meaghan gripped my left hand hard, the way a child squeezes their mother’s hand when they’re getting a flu shot. She crushed my knuckles and I was grateful for the pain; for a second I didn’t feel the ache in my stomach or anxiety in my chest.
It was too early to cry, I didn’t want to cry there. The pastor made a joke and people laughed uncomfortably wondering why he was trying to lighten the mood when the veil of sadness was so heavy. His mom smiled though and she whispered something to his sister, a happy memory. They both laughed.
The piece of lined paper in my hand was sweat-stained and crumpled and the words I had written earlier bled together. Even the paper couldn’t avoid the tears. On autopilot, I got up like a robot would, mechanical and unfeeling. Still holding Meaghan’s hand I dragged her behind me as I stumbled past Jess at the end of the pew.
The sea of people in the room were silent, staring at us. Seconds went by and Meaghan leaned towards me whispering, “It’s your line first.”
I took a deep breath and spoke, “The clouds in the sky….”
My voice wavered as I stared blindly at his family and friends. Meaghan spoke eloquently, her voice clear and calm. She never let go of my hand, squeezing it when it was my turn to speak. As I spoke, the anxiety left me; it was the calmest I’d been in days but when I sat down I couldn’t suppress my sadness anymore. I was happy to have my glasses to hide behind as my eyeliner ran down my face.
It was over too soon, I would have sat in the room forever. It was time to say goodbye and when I walked by I squeezed his hand one last time and lightly touched the cross on his neck. Meaghan’s mom walked us out, her arms around our waists, and the rain began to fall on that sunny evening. He was crying too, we never thought we’d have to say goodbye.
That works--you handle emotional material with discretion and self-control, which is absolutely the writer's obligation to the reader: to offer us a view without trying to make us part of the view, if you see what I mean. (I make an exception for dog stories--a good dog dead is always an occasion for me to choke up.)
ReplyDeleteAnyway, you fly high with the details and understand just the tone of a vignette--it's not a narrative and has different rules, which you obviously get.