It happens in a flash, a blip on the screen of life. The first day the numbness wraps itself around your chest, compressing until the last gasp of air escapes from your lungs. Rational reasoning does not quell the loneliness, and your memory tumbles backward to deter the coming of tomorrow, to protect against the present, to preserve the past, so the truth does not consume you, never to listen to the words of encouragement, endearment, or the flippant teasing of your weaknesses which brought a smile on a sullen day.
You attempt sleep, but the sadness evaded for the moment slams you in the face with its cold, hard fist and you cry out, even with the knowledge that this time comes for everyone. Celebrate the life, you tell yourself, a life filled with hardships but outweighed by the joy of being surrounded by love.
The light of a brand-new day welcomes you, reminding you the invitation does not extend to everyone. You struggle through the kind but meaningless words of those who knew him superficially, or not at all, and the intimate reminisces of those he held close. Some may know a darker side of him, shades of gray which you may have witnessed, a side he did not share with you, a side you convinced yourself did not exist.
You refuse to wear black, which represents the Reaper’s hand and the color of his work. Tomorrow, all physical connections end, and you have no preference what form his remains take. It is not your choice.
As the sun rises and greets you, this final farewell crushes you and erases the last vestige of the brave front you put forward. You march behind the vessel, but he is already on the other side. His presence engulfs you, and you swear an oath to hold tight, to imagine the expression he would make at an utterance of folly that you are capable of committing.
They ask you to say a few words, an anecdote, a tribute, but you possess neither the strength nor desire to deliver words that hold meaning only to you. Today the sky is clear except for a white streak splashing across the blue canvas. It disappears into the heavens. Your feet sink into the soft earth and your legs cannot support the weakness of your heart, as your swollen eyes cower behind dark glasses, your throat parched, your lips quivering, and you want to let the ground swallow you as well.
You release the red rose into the abyss. A snippet of wind brushes your back, and you smile against your tears, a gentle hand encouraging you to continue the rest of your journey.
Greetings. Laurence Williams writes after many years in the Bronx court system. His work appears in the First Line Literary Journal, Read650 Magazine, Sunspot Literary Journal, and Two Hawks Quarterly Magazine. He is a member of the Hudson Valley Writers Center and the Gryphons Writers Group. Born and raised in the Bronx, he resides in the Hudson Valley with his wife Claudia and their cat Charlie. X: @Williams1Lau