Burning Alive

                In every funeral, a row of casseroles and creamy desserts adorn the table in quiet reverie.  They will their gooey bodies to the mouths of the grieving in vain hope of filling the void.  Eventually the carcasses are piled high in aluminum caskets and given away.  They sit patiently in the fridge, occasionally nibbled and quickly forgotten.  In my small existence, I know this to be true.

                In every funeral, flowers sprout from every hand and given to those whose hands can sprout nothing but smudges of their tears.  Glossy and green, they promise renewal, rebirth but only remind one of the loss that comes from starting over.  Soon they, too, wither and die, revealing the emptiness of their motives.  The empty shells pile high in plastic bags until they, too, are forgotten.  In my small existence, I know this to be true.

                The predictable mechanics of the funeral, however, do not orchestrate the procession of grief.  A shadowy haze that descends upon the ones left behind encloses the circle of mourners.  None can penetrate the ancient rites of sorrow.  One can only witness.  One can only listen.

                Recently, my friend lost her brother-in-law in a gruesome and unnecessary way.  Under a cloud of suspicion, the family mourns in unknowing.  Every head hangs low, searching for their lost brother, son and friend.  Some dissolve into the stillness of their mind while others find more desperate acts.  All the chairs may be filled yet the room remains empty.  Eyes turn to the spot where he should be and remain startled by his stark absence.

                The wife, a predictable center of grief, has vanished before their eyes.  Rumors of her involvement are enough to keep her distant.  She behaves like a cruel stranger, feeding the whispers that lurk in dark corners.  The rage is hungry and stalks at the footsteps of the bereaved.  To be taken by God is Natural Law but to be fallen by false love is an abomination.  Yet one can only wait for the slow hand of Justice, and hope to find a fragment of what they lost in the result.

                It reads like a story, a newspaper headline, yet it is here, right before my eyes.  The characters are flesh and their words unscripted.  The haze hangs in the air, its frenzied particles rubbing off on well-wishers.  No one can argue of their sorrow.  No one can steal their melancholy.  Time may fade the scars but never will it heal.  In grief, one learns to live every day with loss; a specter and friend.  Never do they “get over it” like a middle school crush or sucking one’s thumb.  Even as the casseroles are eaten and the flowers have wilted, a chair will always be empty.  The room will always be quieter.  In my small existence, I know this to be true.