Image provided by @cafera13.
To read, “The Sweet Ending, Part I,” click here.
The following is a work of fiction. In Three Parts serves as an opportunity to flex my creative writing muscle.
With a note to forgive myself for asking questions that cannot possibly be answered today, the preacher closes his worn copy of the Bible. We utter no words as the next step in the ritual unfolds.
Standing near the back of the crowd, I can see the pain in the preacher’s eyes. He methodically makes the brief trip around the casket to where my mother and father are seated. As a display of respect and a sign he cannot possibly understand what it means to bury a child, he drops to his knee. He grabs each of their hands in his. Together, they bow their heads and pray silently. Mimicking the moment, we follow suit. After a few brief moments, amens float to the heavens. The preacher then rises and excuses himself from the scene.
No one gives those assembled their next instructions. Instinctively, as if programmed to do so, they form a long line and begin offering final respects. Some shake the hands of my parents. Others offer timid hugs and pats on the back. Many wipe away tears. Most remain silent. Back in the relative safety of their cars and trucks, they will drop the false act of bravery. They will scream and bargain with the impossible task of witnessing a friend or family member lay their child to rest.
Before long, there is no one else to greet. Staring at the casket before them, I can only imagine the speed of the thoughts racing through their heads. They are exhausted. Every single stage of grief is written on their faces with the care of a hurriedly assembled first draft of a novel. I imagine from a distance what they are feeling to be some mixture of relief and disbelief. Relieved to have reached this point in the marathon. Disbelieving that this is where they find themselves on a Friday in November.
Watching their every move, the flowers on top of the casket are removed. Leaning on a tree, I know this is my last opportunity to share the same space with my brother. With conviction, I make my way toward his final resting place. Before they lower him into the ground, I place an open hand on top of the black box before me. I offer a prayer and a promise of my own. None of this shall be in vain. We will not forget him.
Hours later, I am back in my childhood home. My suit is folded haphazardly in my suitcase. I am sleeping in the room where my brother made the ultimate decision. For the first time in days, the house is quiet. For the first time since I received the phone call that sent me screaming across the country, I think about what separated me from him.
I, too, have battled my share of demons. A seemingly unshakable sadness has been my pain to wrestle. Sometimes I pondered a world without me in it. If my story had been written differently, those who mourned my brother could have easily mourned me as well.
What separated us? What made me different? Once again, I find myself at the end of a ritual posing questions that will never know the true answers. Perhaps this is also part of the ritual.
I fall asleep debating only the ghost of my brother. I fall asleep wondering if he now knows the face of God or the blackness of abyss. Yet again, another question.
Be good to each other,
Nathan