“Of course, it is,” she says and smiles weakly. “You’re family.”
I take in her appearance: her eyes are puffy and tired, and she looks completely worn out and defeated-her cheeks look hollow, her hair is sitting limply on her shoulders and her lips are cracked and set into a thin line, She’s a shadow of the woman Ethan first introduced me to months ago. The piano music stops and a minister approaches the lectern. I look wide-eyed at Moira and then glance at the empty seat where my mom should be right now. I need her here; I can’t do this without her. I can’t bear to sit through another funeral. Moira senses my anxiety and runs her hand down over my hair; she squeezes my shoulders and then pulls me into her side like my mom would do. The minister starts to speak, but I don’t hear any words through the sound of the blood rushing in my ears. I can’t do this. I’m not ready. I blink and let my first tear fall, no doubt carving the way for more to follow. I had agreed to come for Moira. I felt bad that she would have to face this alone. I look blankly towards the front but I can’t see anything past my pain.
I’m drawn out of my trance by the shuffling beside me. I let my eyelids drop closed as I say a silent prayer thanking God for answering my pleas and not making me endure this alone. The gentle feel of fingers lacing through my own calm my racing pulse and muffle the drumming of my heart against my chest, dulling it just enough for the discomfort to begin to subside. I squeeze my hand slightly as an indication of my gratitude. My anxiety wanes enough to allow my other senses to take purchase on my surroundings. For the first time I become conscious of the sound of the minister's voice leading the service and I straighten my back and sit taller in my seat, deciding that I’m not going to be defeated by today. I allow myself the belief that I’m stronger than I give myself credit for.
The minister begins a reading that elicits an audible sigh from my lips, and it escapes into the air in a short sharp burst. The reading is the same one I gave at my father's funeral. There’s no way that Moira could have known that this one passage can undoubtedly break my all-too weak resolve, the one I’d found only seconds ago. I couldn’t stop the tears from falling now, even if I wanted to, as I listen to the verse being spoken, my mind tracing each one of W. H. Auden’s words.
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let airplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves; Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest.
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever; I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now, put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood,
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
I know the verse as if I’d penned it myself. I was the one to pick it for my father. I’d heard it spoken in a film that Em once made me watch. I remember thinking how powerful it was, and it never really left me. When my dad died, Mom was a mess. She handled everything with grace and left nothing undone, but when it came to choosing the readings; it was as if the weight of what had happened descended on her all at one. She was sitting at the kitchen table, going through the order of service and then suddenly she was smashing glasses and screaming ‘why’. We sat for hours amongst the broken pieces just holding one another. When she finally stopped sobbing I told her that I would organize the reading. She looked so relieved that I didn’t dare tell her I was terrified. Instead, I spent hours Googling passages that were deemed suitable for funerals, and then I came across Auden’s piece and recognized it immediately. I read it over and over for the next two days until I could practically recite it in my sleep.
I look at our hands intertwined in my lap, and my tears drip onto our skin. Ethan gives me a small smile, and I look across him to my mom. Her own tears are sliding in a steady stream down her face, and I know hearing this will be pulling back all the memories I have just experienced for her too.
I watch as he takes a hold of her hand like he has mine before turning to press a soft kiss to my temple. I’m not sure what my mom said to him outside but she somehow managed to change his mind to come inside. I’m more thankful to her than I’ll ever be able to express, for my sake and his.