I tie the ribbon foolishly,
and I feel the warmth of my mother behind me
as she grabs my shaking hands.
“Calm yourself, Stella,
I know these times are troubling.”
Her hands guide mine,
up and over,
once around and then through the loop.
We’ve made a perfect bow.
“It looks beautiful,”
I struggle to say.
And it does. The bright purple fabric
contrasts with the deep chestnut
brown of the casket,
and matches the purple flowers
hanging from the sky.
“He would love it,”
I try to comfort my mother.
I know she’s holding it all in,
but sooner or later,
she wont anymore.
As much as I forget it,
my mother is actually human.
We stand there for a minute,
and I take a deep breath
as my eyes scan the room,
with sniffling noses
and rainy cheeks.
I take a deep breath
and breathe in
the delicious fragility of this travesty.
We are all so fragile now.
The canopy overhead blocks the intense sun.
Mother is upset because it’s not suppose to be sunny
on the day of your husband’s funeral,
it’s suppose to rain.
“They say it’s good luck,” she mumbles,
looking up at the cloudless sky,
and I rest my hand on her shoulder,
because really, what else can I do?
I lead her over to a chair, because making her sit down
felt like the right thing to do. I’m actually not very sure
what the right thing to do is anymore.
When someone is taken from us,
they leave with a suitcase
packed with smiles and happiness,
and memories of places
where we still laugh and wish.
He left with all of that, my father,
and one day I suppose we’ll all follow after him.