Comfort
Two years ago on the sixth of January, Uncle Joe died. We all knew that his passing had been at hand for some time. Cancer and chemo ate away at him for months, leaving little—a bald, haggard skeleton.
His funeral took place a week later, on a chilly Thursday. It was to be in his frequented church; small, homely, and Baptist, it had been in the family as long as he. Our family, dressed in dark colours, drove there directly only stopping once for food—I had a turkey sandwich—and once for the restroom.
We pulled into the third row of the small parking lot. The first two and a half had been filled with family, friends, and families of friends.
Inside the church the lights were slightly dimmed and the windows that lined the sanctuary were shuttered. This lent an appropriate sombreness to the service. My parents and sister filed into the row behind my grieving aunt while I stepped into the bathroom. I unbuttoned my collar, which had been stifling me the entire eight hour drive, and adjusted my black tie to hide my bare neck. I ran my fingers through my bangs several times and returned to the cushioned spot beside my sister.
At the base of the pulpit, on a table draped with velvet, lay the casket. It was black wood with brass handles, wreathed in magnolia and plastic roses. Its starkness amid the blooms sobered me somewhat and I looked away. My sister sat beside me lightly swinging her legs, staring at the back of the pew where they keep the Hymnals and the Bibles for the forgetful.
The service began promptly at four with a solemn hymn. We all stood up. Several latecomers entered sheepishly and sat in a couple of the folding metal chairs set up in the rear. The organ echoed the last “Amen” and the mourners took their seats.
Three of my aunts four siblings, one of them my father, stood in front of the casket and said their few words in turn. Several times tears came to my bereaved aunts eyes, and the remaining sister seated beside her lent her shoulder and comforting embrace for support.
Low shafts of light not kept out by the shutters spread a sunlit patch at the feet of the speakers. Though bright, the beams carried the reminder of the cold day without with them. The blue carpet, worn by many a black or brown shod foot, took little from the bright square. It merely highlighted its discoloured spots and loose tufts.
Half an hour passed. The minister walked slowly to the pulpit and put to words the communal sense of loss in a prayer. My sister stilled her legs, either out of respect, boredom, or both. I looked at my hands. They were chapped and dry, as they always were during winter. I’ve been told I have old man hands, the skin looking like thin paper and accentuated knuckles. A little lotion should fix that. The scent of magnolia carried slowly in the still air, but was brought out by the silence and sonorous prayer. It reminded me of nights outside after a rain watching the rippling moon in the pools gathered among the leaves. My father stood quietly in front of the casket in the line of his siblings with his hands folded in front of him. He never closed his eyes during prayer either.
We stood out in the cold cemetery. The winds lifted the tail of my long, grey jacket and tugged at the ends of my mother’s scarf. Under a blue tarpaulin tent the casket was set upon a frame of polished metal and straps of green cloth. It was to be lowered into the grave afterwards. I stood next to my father and hid my old hands in my pockets out of the wind. My mother had an arm around my sister. They were holding close together, perhaps for warmth. A tall man in a tan coat, the minister’s son, standing in front of the casket began to speak. As he talked, I thought of the last time I had spoken to my uncle. We had exchanged perhaps thirty words over the phone. My uncle and I always had a fondness for one another, but I did not know him. I knew he was dying as we spoke and did not know what to say. What does one say to a dying stranger?
The wind and the cold had sunk to my bones and I wanted warmth. The minister’s son began to speak in closing tones. My mother continued to look on with my sister shivering at her side. He began to pray a prayer of remembrance in similar phrases and inflections as his father’s.
I looked at my feet and saw there the frozen grass, still green, but rigid. It had not snowed much that winter.
The crowd began to mill and talk, some walking directly to their cars, others to the church. My father approached, and was approached by, several friends. They all spoke with sad smiles and words of sympathy. My father responded in kind. My mother joined the group of women who were standing about my aunt. They spoke many of the same things. They offered meals and beds and company to which my aunt would smile, her lean cheeks crinkling like thin paper.
My sister walked over to me and hugged me round the waist. “For warmth” I thought. But I saw her eyes were wet with more than the wind.
“Mom’s crying,” she said.
I put my arm around her and she stopped shivering.
After fifteen minutes most of the mourners had left, and the cluster of women moved towards the church. My mother stopped at the door and bid them farewell. She hugged my aunt and waved a gloved hand at the others. She made her way to where my sister and I were standing. She walked slowly, took the stray ends of her scarf and stuffed them into her coat, readjusting it.
We stood together, my mother, my sister, and I, and watched my father talking to two men. They spoke slowly, in spaced phrases. He had his hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched against the piercing wind. My mother wiped her eyes with her glove and sighed. He soon joined bade them farewell with a comment about the weather and joined us as we walked as a group to the car. The parking lot was mostly empty now.
An hour later we sat in one of my aunt’s warm house. I held my hands over a gas heater and tried to rub out the cold that had crept into them. My sister had found a cousin near her age and they sat at the small kitchen table drinking soda and talking quietly. They were aware of the sombre adults in the next room. All the siblings had converged there and the women were strewn about the living room in overstuffed chairs, drinking sweet tea, talking and remembering. The two men, my father and his brother, had gone out onto the closed porch. I watched my sister and cousin talking for several minutes. They did not mention my uncle. Every so often my sister would become quiet and lower her eyes to her lap. My cousin asked:
“Whatsa matter?”
“Nothin’,” she said.
My cousin shrugged and continued talking about the new calf they had just gotten on their farm. He had my uncle’s blonde hair, thin build, and pale blue eyes. The calf was white and black, and he had got to feed it milk from a bottle once. It had tried to bite him.
“Nu-uh,” my sister said.
“Uh-huh,” my cousin replied.
“Cows don’t have teeth when their that young,” my sister stated.
“Yes they do.”
“No they don’t”
“Yes they do.”
“No they don’t”
“Yes they do! What do you know about it, you live in a city.”
“I read a book about them”
“Well, I have one, and it tried to bite me!”
I walked to the porch. I found my father and his brother sitting in two bare old wicker chairs facing the window, two cups of coffee on the table between them. The steam rose from the warm liquid and curled away into the air. They were silent. I stood at the corner and looked out a window. On the sill there was a fly, buzzing and butting into the glass. I smelled the pleasant bitterness of the coffee, and could hear the muted voices from within. I looked over to the two chairs. My father sat staring out the window at the bare oak tree in the yard. His face was young, but the hair at his temples was beginning to whiten.
“How old was Joe?” he asked.
“Fifty-three” my uncle replied.
“Fifty-three…” my father repeated.
I watched the little buzzing insect. It kept trying to fly through the window into the frigid evening. The sun was sinking now, and the night would much colder. I took of my tie and threw it onto the sill, covering it.
The next day we drove the eight hours back home and stopped once for food and once for the restroom. I did not eat anything. My father drove most of the way, and when he did, he pushed against the cars in front of him. My mother would ask him to slow down, which he did. I watched my sister sleeping on the seat beside me, her head against the window and features jostling with the bumps in the road. I was in my regular clothes now and comfortable, but not tired. I looked at my old hands and moved my fingers around, watching the skin crease and stretch. The trees moved by in a green blur and the drivers in the cars we passed did not look back at me. My mother soon fell asleep and I could only see her dark hair leaning against the headrest. I turned to watch my father driving. He passed several cars until the road before him was clear. I caught his eye in the rear view mirror and smiled at him. He smiled back, but looked over to his sleeping wife and returned his eyes to the road.
I was sixteen.
January, February 2007
