The priest makes the sign of the cross over his chest. When someone dies, you start counting all the ways you failed them. I can’t remember why, but that’s probably why she’s crying now.
Sharon or Karen behind me told Michael he was a prick at that party. One of those awful holiday work parties in a school auditorium where they serve cheap wine in plastic cups and people stand around making awkward small talk until they’re drunk enough to say what they really think about each other. Sharon? Karen? A colleague of Michael’s who I met at a long-ago faculty party. Grief has blown me apart, scattering my bones into a desert wasteland where they’ll bake in silence under a merciless sun for a thousand years.Ī woman behind me quietly weeps into her handkerchief.
There’s a Michael-shaped hole in my chest, and nothing matters anymore. So many words, and all so meaningless.Įverything is meaningless. I stand motionless under an umbrella with the other mourners, listening to the priest drone on about resurrection and glory, blessings and suffering, redemption and the holy love of God. Raining hard, as if the sky itself is about to rip in half like my heart has. It’s raining as my husband’s casket is lowered into the hole in the ground.
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