I went to her dad's funeral yesterday, a friend. She was poised and smiling as the crowd filtered in. I saw him come in from the side room and he stopped and looked for her. His eyes not stopping until he found her. He made his way to her side and gently put his hand on her back.
She didn't look up for she knew whom this was. When she went to say her final good-byes he was there holding her.
When the service started she sat on the front row with her mom and he sat behind her.
She sang a song, he wiped tears from his eyes.
I wonder if she realized years and years ago that he would stand next to her for everything and when years have passed his hand will still be there.
Her mom, sitting alone now. The stories being told about how "they loved" to travel and how "they loved" to have company. Her life defined by him, for him, for over 55 years and now it will be defined by just her and not him anymore, not us, but me.
No more bowls of vanilla ice cream to share at night. Just her with her memories and his things.
His shirts no longer to wash. His shoes not in the way anymore. No more complaining about who left the top to the tooth paste off. Just her alone with the 55 years of memories banging around begging to be talked about. Wishing to be relived again. As I sat and watched her mom follow the casket out I wondered how she kept herself so composed and together.
I think to myself that she was just like me sometime ago. Busy with the business of raising his children, cleaning his house and making his lunch. Trying to carve out time to spend together.
Looking for moments to be intimate and finding they were hard to come by.
Thinking to herself that time was on their side.
As her dad died they say her mom cried
"I'm not ready for him to go."
More washing his clothes
More reminding him to do something.
More times to hold his hand.
More cleaning up his messes.
More getting his coffee.
More patience as he's late again.
We complain, we carry on about our beloveds as if our time with
them is unlimited.
Just like her, our hair will turn gray, our backs will bend, and our walk
behind our beloveds casket will have us shouting:
I'm not ready.