I suppose I am accustomed to a finite never. That hangover was so spectacular that I will never drink again.
She actually turned out to be quite the bitch, I will never speak to her again.
Now that we make more money we will never make beans and cornbread again.
Never is tenuous and comes with limitations. Maybe I’ll drink if the setting is appropriate. If she apologizes I will consider deigning to grace her with my presence. Perhaps beans aren’t really that bad.
I don’t attend funerals. They are for the living. There seems to be no way to erase the image of an empty vessel from the mind. I went to yours for your mother. Somehow I imagined, naively, that if we were all there we could buffer her from the absence of her own heart. I wasn’t yet thirty and therefore wisdom had not yet settled.
But I went to your viewing. I was late and everyone else had gone. I had to view you alone.
George was with me. He allowed me to clutch his arm. The girls were in the parlor. I didn’t want them to see. Even then I believed–I could hide them from death.
The breath was pulled from my body without warning, but I stayed in my feet. I wanted to touch you but I didn’t. You were darker than you were in life and this bothered me. I wanted you to look exactly the same. I wanted to feel you could have been sleeping.
The music was horrendous. Were I not crying for you I would have been crying for that. It was truly awful. Exactly what you’d expect from a funeral home.
You were surrounded by photographs. You were unmoving. Your chest did not rise and fall with breath.
You were not in there.
I cried aching tears, the kind that seem to bleed when they out. I contemplated my own mortality.
I didn’t eat at your repast. Some years ago Grammy called that sin eating and it has stayed with me. I couldn’t let a single morsel pass my lips.
So here I am months later. In the Catholic Church (yes I am agnostic and yes I do attend church…it’s a long story) the period following Halloween is reserved for contemplation of those we have lost. I wrote your name as one to be remembered on the cloth this morning, and I felt the aching pain again. I was surprised.
You will not come this way again. This surprises me. The fact that this surprises me surprises me also.
It is the infinite never that I do not comprehend. This state without you is not temporary. You will never greet us with your mischievous smile again. We will never hear the tinkling innocence that your laughter never seemed to shed again.
I keep asking George if he remembered standing beside me looking down at you. He does, so it was not a dream. You have crossed the veil, and you do not come back this way in our lives a way that is familiar. We must do life, always, without you.
I placed these words here carelessly. I understand them in theory.
I am snagged by the “never.” Never. I turn again to my phone, waiting for the message that you have been found. Even now I wait for it.
I do not comprehend an infinite never.