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The occasional sob breaks through the somber quiet—a stifled cry from behind me, a sniffle to my left. I feel these sounds more than I hear them, vibrations in the air that mingle with the whispers of wind through the trees.
"Let us pray," Father O'Malley says, his voice gentle yet carrying across the expanse of loss. The crowd draws in closer, a shield against the encroaching cold.
"Lord Almighty, we stand here on Your sacred ground, united in grief, to entrust our beloved Abigail into Your loving arms. May You welcome her into Paradise, where there is no sorrow, no weeping, but the fullness of peace and joy with Your Son and the Holy Spirit forever."
His words wrap around us, an attempt to soothe the raw edges of our collective wound. My chest tightens as I listen, drawing in a breath that doesn't seem to reach my lungs.
"Abigail lived a life of generous love, of unwavering faith," Father O'Malley continues. "She was a beacon of hope andkindness in this world—a testament to the grace that flows when one lives in service to others."
His eulogy paints a picture of Mom I recognize, a narrative woven from the threads of her essence. It's comforting, but it's also a spear, reminding me of what we've lost.
"May her soul, and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace," he concludes, crossing himself.
"Amen," the gathered voices echo, a chorus of heartache.
Dick's hand is steady as he lays a yellow tulip on the polished wood, his jaw clenched in silent stoicism. Jenny follows, her sharp features softened for once by grief as she places her flower gently beside Dick's. Lola's hand trembles, the petal of her tulip brushing the casket with the lightest whisper, a tear tracing a path down her cheek. It's my turn, and my fingers are numb as I let go of the bloom, watching it settle amongst the others—a patchwork of shared sorrow.
"Goodbye" escapes from my lips, a murmur lost to the wind.
The attendees shuffle forward, each one pausing briefly in their homage, the mound of yellow growing like a sunlit crest on a dark wave.
As Father O'Malley steps back, the pallbearers position themselves once more. Their faces are solemn masks, etched with the gravity of their task. Together, they lift the casket, a final act of service and respect for the woman who gave us life.
The casket descends slowly, deliberately, as if time itself pauses to honor her journey from this life to the next. I imagine I can feel the soft thud as it comes to rest at the bottom of the grave—a soundless echo that reverberates through my very bones.
"Goodbye, Mom," I whisper, my voice barely audible. The world seems to narrow down to this single moment, this lastfarewell. The finality of it grips me, and I'm anchored in place, unable to move, unable to look away.
A silent promise forms in my mind—words unspoken but deeply felt. I will carry her legacy, her warmth, her generosity. In that way, she'll never truly be gone, living on in the actions and hearts of those she touched.
"May the angels lead you into paradise," Father O'Malley's prayer floats over us, "may the martyrs come to welcome you and take you to the holy city, the new and eternal Jerusalem."
Chapter thirty-five
DR. JACOBS.
TONY
It is over . . . time to go and face a life without both Mom and Dad. As I turn to look for Dick, who is my ride, I hear my name called.
"Tony."
Dr. Jacobs' voice pulls me from my reverie. His eyes, rheumy yet resolute, meet mine. "I am very sorry indeed for your loss. I knew your mother and father well. They were good people," he says. The age in his voice is profound, weighted by things unseen and unsaid.
“I was wondering if I could have a quiet word with you if it is not too much of an intrusion in these difficult times.”
“Yes, of course.”
“I'm also going to ask yet another favor, my child. These old bones are not as cooperative as they used to be. I’m afraid I need to sit down.”
"Oh, Dr. Jacobs. Of course. Shall we talk in your car?" I reply, my curiosity piqued amidst the fog of grief.
"Ah yes, that's a wonderful idea," he winces slightly, a testament to the stubbornness of time on his body.
I offer my arm, and together with his care aide, we steer him towards his vehicle, navigating gravestones and mourners. Once within the quiet confines of his car, the door closes with a soft click, sealing us away from the world outside. Henry, the aide, nods and steps away, leaving us in privacy.
"My dear Child . . . " Dr. Jacobs begins, and the weight of his words hits me before their meaning does. My heart stutters, my breath catches. " . . . I have carried this burden for almost twenty years. It is a burden that has not been easy to carry. Every time I saw your mother, my heart wanted to reach out and tell her the truth, but I couldn't.
“They made us sign NDAs, and then later, we all got threatening letters of how they could hurt us if we strayed. Over the years, we have kept our mouths shut, but their time has run out. There were four of us. Two of us are gone already, and I will be gone soon.
