Always by Karen Uttien

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today,” the priest recited – as he did every Sunday – but today wasn’t Sunday.

We sit.  The sermon goes on.

I look up at grandma sitting empty beside me.  Then over at my sister’s tearstained face reflecting my own.  Behind us the congregation spills out onto the street.  Blocking the sunlight.

We stand.  We sit.  The sermon goes on.

We feel the mourners’ pity piercing our hearts from behind as the tuneless hymns relentlessly push us forward – closer to the suffocating truth.

We kneel.  We stand.  We sit.  The sermon goes on.

We listen to the first reading.  The second and third.  The eulogy.

Father’s footsteps are deliberate and alone – then deafening silence as he stands by the altar and clears his throat.  The congregation breathes as he begins to speak.  Our ears pulsate and tears cloud our eyes.  We stare down at our fingers waiting to catch the grief before it stains our clothes.

We sit.  We stand.  And stand and stand and stand.  The sermon goes on and on and on.

Finally, the black suits get up and begin the slow walk down the aisle.  We genuflect and follow numbly behind.  Keeping our heads bowed to avert the patronising sympathy of mourners silently praying their children will never be us.

The chauffeur shuts the door – smothering us in lavender.  We stare blindly out the window until we reach the gravel road lined with gravestones – somehow making us feel less alone.

Again – we walk behind the black suits carrying the coffin.  Mourners gather closely around the freshly dug grave.  The warmth of their bodies is comforting as the coffin lowers into the ground.  In turn we step forward to throw in flowers and trinkets and letters until the box is veiled in love.

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust …”

The cold black earth crushes the flowers preparing for the termites and worms and maggots.  We close our eyes to rid the thought and vow this is not how we will remember her.

The road home is long and people have already gathered.  Eating cake and sandwiches and drinking tea and wine.  We look around and ask grandma why they are here.  She says they want to pay their respects.  We ask her why they are laughing.  She doesn’t know.

Grandma says we are allowed to stay up late but we want to go to bed.  We want to change from the clothes soiled in pity and put on our nice clean pyjamas.  We want to evaporate into sweet dreams far-far away from today.

The next morning the sun rises and flowers bloom and birds sing merrily in the treetops.

Our flowers are dull and the birds sing out of tune. 

Birthdays and birthdays and birthdays pass.  The comfort of her voice and warmth of her laughter fades with the colour of her eyes in the photos on the wall.

But still we look upon the golden mountain where she stayed.

Watching over us.

Loving us.

Always.

Mum.

Karen Uttien

Image: Funeral with pall bearers and coffin topped with a wreath – dd