A Death

Dead. Mother was dead, She was in the mahogany casket my father had picked out--a relucent wood that I tried to focus on instead of seeing my brother Ralph sob on Dad's shoulder, clutching at the lapels of his suit jacket. There were not too many people at the service. Mom was a wonderful woman, very accomodating and sociable and lovely with anyone she met, but she had dedicated herself to her family and the friends she made were few. Still, there were people here I had not seen in years that she only knew as acquaintances. Something in my mother had compelled them to come, something I didn't want to acknowledge.

  She was so stoic in the hospital, her eyes clear and hands strong when I held them. Marcus Aurelius would've been proud. My grandmother, who had been fairly quiet thus far, began keening softly, then in a higher and higher register, till her wail broke out explosively in the room. She cried her daughter's name savagely causing Dad to put his free arm around her, and she thrust her head onto his left shoulder, leaving him looking like a comforting nursemaid holding two squealing babes.

  I saw his head turn and knew he was looking at me. I didn't want to see the pleading expression on his face, nor make myself go to him. God, this spectacle. This obscene need to have the body in a box and cry to it like an unholy fetish. Mom ... This hanging on as if the minister's insipid words could provoke the miracle of Lazarus again. My mother ... This--