Church bells sounded, clear and absolute in the frigid winter sun. Black heels clicked on the faux cobblestones, and awkward young men shuffled their feet in their Sunday shoes on their way into the church.
It was a typical affair for such an atypical passing. He was too young, too passionate, and too full of life to be robbed of it. But life was not fair, and death was its cruel mistress, always lurking in the shadows, waiting for the most inopportune time to strike.
And yet, the usual rituals applied. The girls wept into crisp white handkerchiefs, leaning into the shoulders of their male counterparts, who sat rigidly in the pews. American boys through and through, they did not weep. Rather, they let their arms wind around the shoulders of the fragile classmates, neighbors, sisters and strangers sobbing next to them, distantly noticing the sweet aroma of their hair and resolving to later destroy something beautiful.
The guest of honor was displayed in all the glory he had never earned, but had now somehow achieved. Immortalized at eighteen, he had never had to prove himself, but was already a hero. Everyone simply knew he would have changed the world, had he not been so swiftly taken from it. Pristine in his best church suit, he was absolved of sin and cherished so dearly, if only for the next few weeks.
Amongst the crowd, behind the stone-faced family and the adoring fans, she sat. She was a tiny thing, shivering in the drafty cathedral and her gauzy dress. One hand gripped the pew, her knuckles turning white, and the other rested on her abdomen, calming the monster within. Her plain hair was pulled tight to the back of her head, pulling the skin of her face back and bestowing upon her an expression of constant surprise. Or perhaps that was simply how her face remained these days. She did not cry, but she did not smile either, not at the priest’s most reassuring words, nor at the bittersweet anecdotes glumly recited by the friends of the mourned.
Had anyone in the surrounding pews known her, they surely would have wondered about her, or perhaps even worried. Had they known her, they may have asked how she was coping, if she had gotten any sort of chance to say goodbye. If anyone had noticed the skittish girl who could not cry, they may have asked her how she knew the deceased. If they had known anything, they would have gently patted her shoulder and asked her what she was going to do.
If they had asked and she had known, she would have told them, but as it happened, she hadn’t the faintest clue. It was already too much for her to sit there, eyes focused on the vessel left behind by her lover and to contain her screams. It was already too much to wake up, to breathe, and to realize what she had lost and what she now had to lose.
Across the crowded room, a number of young women wept for the departed. Old friends, childhood playmates, high school loves, and a few unmendable broken hearts dabbed their eyes and wailed their regrets and sorrows. She could not shed a tear. The choir grieved through song, singing of heaven and mourning, imprinting hope upon the hearts of those stricken with anguish and guilt.
The pallbearers lifted him gently and took him away to rot in his newfound glory, and the congregation staggered out behind. Red-eyed and white faced, they left with an odd sense of clarification, and a vague reassurance that this too should pass, and life would continue, for a time.
Blinking in the afternoon sunshine, the mourners lingered for last embraces and condolences. The last to leave, she stumbled on the stairs. She put herself right quickly, but stood, very quietly and solemnly, for quite some time. She stared at the sky. She cursed God. She cursed herself. But mostly, she cursed him. She cursed him for leaving so suddenly. There had been no closure, and there could not be. She cursed him for leaving her with a shattered heart and a dull ache deep within her core, an ache that would not be ignored and could never be forgotten. She cursed him for dying, leaving her to the wretched task of staying alive.
Perhaps a tear did escape her eye much later, as she stood at the edge of his fresh, damp grave. Perhaps a tear did fall, only to be caught by the soil that covered him and absorbed by the roses doomed to die with him. Perhaps she wept. Not for him, but for herself, her loss, and their problem that lingered. She fell, dirtying her dress and staining her skin with clay, and rested her head against his grave marker. One hand covered her eyes as she wept, and the other clutched her abdomen, wishing the dull, willful ache that resided there to disappear.
The sun retreated beyond the horizon and the moon made the tears shine on her face. She had resolved to stay until she cried herself to death or a resolution became clear, but the piercing cold and overwhelming exhaustion that consumed her inspired a change of heart.
Partially composed, she stood and brushed herself off. With one last wayward glance to the past, she turned to leave the cemetery, exiting death’s realm in search of a new meaning in life.
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