It Is Done

My aunt's funeral is over, but her family's mourning has just begun. They're flying to Texas tomorrow to bury her beside her mother-in-law. I've never seen my uncle look so old, so lost, but there is no emotion more unmanning than human grief. On Thursday morning, he was kissing his wife of twenty-nine years goodbye as he went to work, and on Thursday afternoon, he found her dead in their bed, victim of a massive heart attack. I think his heart went with hers, and he'll never be as fun and gregarious as he once was. He loved her with a singularity that I can only envy and covet, and now he's alone. Watching him grip the pew with white-knuckled hands as he struggled to be strong for his grown children undid me more than once.

The service was lovely, presided over by a tiny Italian priest with long, snowy hair and a booming, warm voice. The little man exuded warmth, and for reasons I don't understand, he blessed me before the service. It was simultaneously comforting and heartbreaking, and the pressure of his warm palm on my head lingers still, as does the echo of "Ave Maria".

There is more to say, but not tonight. I'm just plain tired--bone-weary--and my thoughts scatter like dandelion seeds on the wind. Tomorrow, perhaps, after I visit my father's grave.