LJ Idol Week 4
This entry is for therealljidol. The topic is "The elephant in the room"
The only one at the wake who knew we had gotten married was my younger brother, who had been present at our nuptials two weeks earlier and had agreed to keep quiet until we broke the news to our family. My husband and I decided that a wake wasn't the venue to share our joy, so we obscured our wedding bands from view and I decided on a loose, flowing dress to conceal the firm bulge of my belly. There would be another time for happiness.
When we arrived there was a current of divisiveness that cut through the room. My mother sat, hunched over, on an upholstered bench by the casket. My younger sister sat next to her, rubbing her back vacantly. My brother and his girlfriend were talking in obligatory hushed tones near by. On the other side of the room, beyond the sea of empty chairs, stood everyone else.
“I told you she'd wear the sparkly shawl,” I whispered to my husband, grasping for something to say. My mother had a flair for the dramatic and that long, sequined shawl had made its appearance at more than one funeral. I looked over at the faces on the other side of the room. They were talking in little bundles of 3 or 4 people. Every so often someone's eyes would cast daggers at my family.
I had anticipated that the experience would be awkward, and surreal. It's not every day that you get together to mourn the loss of a man who, on his wedding anniversary (and six months after leaving my mother), took a nail gun to his frontal lobe. Grief is a fumbling monster of nerves under the most normal of circumstances and suicide only makes it worse.
There wasn't much speaking. His best friend stood before the group and proclaimed his affection for my stepfather, touting his merits as firefighter and a fellow human. He ended his speech by addressing the elephant in the room. Framed by the backdrop of floral arrangements and photos, he loudly proclaimed that Brad was in heaven with his first wife, his one true love, and that one way or another, my mother had been his ultimate undoing.
My mother sobbed loudly. My youngest brother ran off to the bathroom crying. The crowd in the back of the room nodded in agreement and glared. I stood in the doorway watching it all unfold and imagining escaping the pervasive sense of unease that had settled over the funeral home.
Fortunately, I had to miss the funeral.
The only one at the wake who knew we had gotten married was my younger brother, who had been present at our nuptials two weeks earlier and had agreed to keep quiet until we broke the news to our family. My husband and I decided that a wake wasn't the venue to share our joy, so we obscured our wedding bands from view and I decided on a loose, flowing dress to conceal the firm bulge of my belly. There would be another time for happiness.
When we arrived there was a current of divisiveness that cut through the room. My mother sat, hunched over, on an upholstered bench by the casket. My younger sister sat next to her, rubbing her back vacantly. My brother and his girlfriend were talking in obligatory hushed tones near by. On the other side of the room, beyond the sea of empty chairs, stood everyone else.
“I told you she'd wear the sparkly shawl,” I whispered to my husband, grasping for something to say. My mother had a flair for the dramatic and that long, sequined shawl had made its appearance at more than one funeral. I looked over at the faces on the other side of the room. They were talking in little bundles of 3 or 4 people. Every so often someone's eyes would cast daggers at my family.
I had anticipated that the experience would be awkward, and surreal. It's not every day that you get together to mourn the loss of a man who, on his wedding anniversary (and six months after leaving my mother), took a nail gun to his frontal lobe. Grief is a fumbling monster of nerves under the most normal of circumstances and suicide only makes it worse.
There wasn't much speaking. His best friend stood before the group and proclaimed his affection for my stepfather, touting his merits as firefighter and a fellow human. He ended his speech by addressing the elephant in the room. Framed by the backdrop of floral arrangements and photos, he loudly proclaimed that Brad was in heaven with his first wife, his one true love, and that one way or another, my mother had been his ultimate undoing.
My mother sobbed loudly. My youngest brother ran off to the bathroom crying. The crowd in the back of the room nodded in agreement and glared. I stood in the doorway watching it all unfold and imagining escaping the pervasive sense of unease that had settled over the funeral home.
Fortunately, I had to miss the funeral.