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“In her distraught state, the woman intended to call her daughter, but she dialed the wrong number . . . our number. My Mom didn’t know this woman, but that didn’t matter. There was a woman out there in trouble, and that was reason enough.
“Even when the woman told my mother that the husband had a gun and would not hesitate to use it, it didn’t deter her. At two O’clock in the morning, my Mom woke up my Dad, and together, they set off in the middle of the night to help a woman they did not even know.
“When my mother told me this story many years later, I was flummoxed. I asked her why they didn’t just call the cops to go help. Her simple answer was, ‘There must have been a reason the woman didn’t do that herself. There wasn’t time to ask too many questions, my love. There was a woman being threatened with a gun.’ That is who my mother was. She would do anything to help a person in need. She . . . " My vision blurs for a moment, and I pause to collect myself.
"Her love was a gift she gave freely," I manage to say, the words sounding hollow to my own ears. "A gift I hope we'll carry forever, in this community, in her honor."
I step down, the silence deafening in my ears. I return to my seat, each step heavier than the last, and sit, feeling the absence of her like a chasm in my chest. The service continues around me, a blur of prayers and songs, but I'm adrift in a sea of memories and what-ifs, the voices around me nothing more than a distant hum.
After I sit back down, three more friends rise one after another, their stories weaving a tapestry of Mom's life. Marianne, with her voice quivering, recounts times of sharedlaughter over cups of tea. George speaks of a charity event Mom organized how she turned empathy into action. And Rachel, a work acquaintance, recalls a moment of unexpected support during a personal crisis.
"Abigail didn't just enter a room," Rachel says, wiping away tears. "She embraced it, filled it with her presence. She was the warmth we all basked in."
After the last story, the soft swell of organ music fills the space. Hymns lift from throats, some strong, others trembling. The notes float up, brushing the vaulted ceilings, filling every corner with their mournful resonance.
"Amazing Grace" starts, and it's as if the very walls of St. Mary's join in our grief. I close my eyes, listen to the collective voice of mourning, feel the vibrations through the soles of my shoes. In this chorus of heartache, Mom's spirit seems to dance on each syllable, on every tear-streaked cheek, in the clasped hands praying for solace.
The prayers that follow are whispers of hope amidst despair; fervent pleas for strength. I find myself murmuring along, the words imprinted on my soul from years of Sundays spent in these pews. Each "Our Father" and "Hail Mary" is a step on the path of healing, a path we now walk together, united in our loss.
"Lead us not into temptation," Father O'Malley's voice guides us. "But deliver us from evil."
Deliver us, I think. Deliver me from this pain that threatens to consume me; deliver us all to a place where memories bring smiles more often than tears.
Father O'Malley finally steps away from the lectern, his hands clasped before him, his eyes sweeping over the congregation.Silence befalls St. Mary's as if the very air waits with bated breath for his words.
"Brothers and sisters in Christ," he begins, his voice resonating in the stillness, "we now prepare, in the sight of God, to remember the life of Abigail—a beloved mother, a cherished friend, a faithful servant, and to deliver her into the Kingdom of Heaven."
I shift in the pew, my hands folded tightly on my lap. The wooden seat is hard against my back, grounding me as I listen.
"Life," Father O'Malley continues, his tone both gentle and authoritative, "is a precious gift, a cycle that begins at birth and carries us through the seasons of joy, of growth, of love, and yes, even through the shadow of death."
The congregation stirs, some reaching for tissues, others nodding in solemn agreement. The fabric of someone's coat rustles behind me, a quiet soundtrack to our shared contemplation.
"Abigail understood this cycle well," Father O'Malley says. "She embraced each moment with grace and generosity, teaching us that in every ending, there is also a beginning—a promise of renewal and hope."
I can almost hear Mom's laughter and see her smile that could light up a room. It's there, in the flickering flame of the altar candles, in the stained glass that paints the church in hues of redemption and peace.
"Christ tells us, 'I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live,'" he quotes from the Gospel of John, his voice imbued with conviction. "In this promise, we find solace. In this truth, we find the courage to face our own mortality, knowing that death is not an end but a doorway to eternal peace."
I take a deep breath, letting the words wash over me and seep into the cracks of my broken heart. I bet Father O’Malley hopes that they're more than just sounds; a lifeline in a sea of grief.
"Let us then commend our sister Abigail to the Lord's loving embrace," Father O'Malley concludes, his gaze touching each face in turn, "trusting that she has entered into the rest of the saints in light."
As the final amen is spoken, the silence feels heavier, filled with the weight of finality.
The pallbearers rise, their movements measured and reverent. Dick is among them, his jaw set, his broad shoulders squared beneath his dark suit. Beside him, our neighbor Manuel’s silver hair gleams under the church lights, a testament to the passage of time.
They all approach the casket, their hands gripping the polished wood, and I stand, my legs numb, my throat tight as I watch them lift the symbol of our loss. The casket seems to carry more than just a body; it bears the sum of all our memories, our unspoken words, our unshed tears.
Together, they set off to walk down the aisle, a slow procession marked by the soft shuffle of feet and whispered prayers. Dick's gaze meets mine for a brief moment as he walks by, a silent exchange of strength and sorrow then continues down the aisle carrying Mom to the black hearse that waits like a silent sentinel.
"Goodbye, Mom," I murmur, my voice lost amidst the murmur of the crowd. I follow behind, my arms wrapped around myself, holding in the pieces of my heart that threaten to scatter with the wind.
It’s a short ride to St. Mary’s cemetery, the same cemetery that is my father’s resting place. The gravesite is a patchwork of stones and memories, a silent congregation of the departed keeping watch. We tread on a carpet of grass and fallen leaves, each step deliberate, as though the earth beneath us might give way.
I'm at the edge of the gathered mourners, their black attire a stark contrast to the fading light. Dick leads our fragmented family, his eyes fixed on the hearse that now sits idly by the open grave. There's no mistaking the resolve in his gait, a stoic sentinel against the creeping despair.
Jenny clutches Lola's hand, her knuckles white; the two of them are a study in opposites—Jenny's analytical mind trying to make sense of the senseless, while Lola's tender soul weeps without restraint. Aunt Serafina stands apart, her posture regal even in mourning, her face etched with lines of sorrowful dignity.
