The rain had finally stopped but the air was still thick and heavy with moisture. Drops of water dripped from the dead leaves of overhanging trees and gray, sagging clouds obliterated the face of the sky, seemingly in mourning. A light wind blew across a nearly empty graveyard, and over the heads of a small semicircle of people. It was a suitable day for a funeral.
Rosemarie pulled her coat tighter around her small frame and looked around, anywhere but at the long, wooden coffin directly before her. A lady from the church, an imposing figure of great height, yet soft words, was standing beside it. She was talking about her pastor, her friend, her mentor, who had gone to be with the Good Lord. Rosemarie didn't want to listen to her. She squeezed her eyes shut, tucked her hands about her waist and strained to hear anything else.
The wind was blowing so softly, rustling through the dead leaves of overhanging trees. Someone was crying - she could hear quiet gasps and sniffles. Rosemarie scrunched her nose, hugging herself even tighter. No. No crying. Please stop. She took a step to the left, away from Mama and Baby June, her brand-new church shoes sinking just barely into a patch of mud. "Rosemarie Anne", whispered Mama, sharply. "Stay here." Her blue eyes were cold and hard, piercing into her daughter. Rosemarie hunched her shoulders and stared at the saturated ground in submission.
She thought briefly for a moment how odd it was Mama was the only one in the front row not crying - besides herself and Baby June, of course. Gramma was weeping, supported up only by Aunt Lori and Cousin Nate, covering her face with a shaking Kleenex. Aunt Bekah's eyes were red and swollen and she held her daughter Julia to her chest, while Uncle Travis stood with a bowed head beside them. Nearly the entire family appeared to be suffering, except for them.
But Mama never cried. She didn't cry when Daddy left last year and she hadn't even cried when she called Rosemarie out of bed five days ago and told her The News. Mama's face had been white, and her hands were shaking, but not one tear left her eyes. Grampa said she was a strong woman. He said Rosemarie was, too, especially for just being seven years old. That's why she didn't cry either, when Mama told her he was dead.
The lady from the church, her name was pronounced funny like Gree-sell-DUH, was still talking. She was the last person to go up and say something nice about Grampa, but she had to stop every few words because she was crying so much. Rosemarie watched a tear slip down her lean, brown face and shuddered, turning her gaze upon the coffin at the front. There were bouquets of flowers surrounding it, groups of purple and white, blue and violet, lilacs and irises, all prettily arranged for people to see. Grampa's favorite color was purple, she remembered.
She remembered going to his house one summer day, "just for fun" Mama said, and he had been planting lavender in the backyard. She remembered him saying it was for Granma and she had laughed and said, "No, Grampa you're silly. Gramma hates purple. That's for you!" Gramma liked red, so she had a beautiful big rosebush by the front door. Grampa laughed, too, his pale blue eyes dancing with mischief. "Then, it'll be our little secret", he said and Rosemarie had squirmed with excitement because she loved keeping secrets.
That memory was still as fresh and vibrant in her mind as it had been the day it happened. Rosemarie licked her chapped lips, glancing away from the flowers. She didn't like to think about Grampa. Those thoughts just tempted her to open up and cry, like everyone else was doing. But she wouldn't. She couldn't. She decided not to think about him, anymore.
Gree-sell-DUH had finally finished speaking. She lifted her long, black skirt, carefully making her way through the mud, stopping only once to hug Gramma. Pastor stepped back from his position near the casket as a short blonde lady strode to the front followed by two men. They began to move the flowers away from the coffin, lining them in a crooked row toward Rosemarie. She stiffened ever so slightly. Mama had said this was going to happen, they were going to put him in the ground now, bury him. As if sensing her thoughts, Mama lay her hand on Rosemarie's shoulder. Her grip was firm and confident, a reminder to keep calm. They knew this was going to happen, and they were ready. Rosemarie grew still under the touch, her eyes fixed on the men adjusting the cords and ropes, preparing to lower the coffin. In her peripheral vision she noted Pastor take a few steps toward the crowd, clear his throat, and begin to sing very slowly and quietly. She listened as voice after voice joined and strengthened his. They were so steady, so sure.
What a day that will be, when my Jesus I shall see...
There was a sliding, a scratching. The coffin lowered ever so slightly. Rosemarie's heart jumped, a fine layer of sweat icing itself to her clenched palms. She felt fear rising and fought to push it down. No, stop. She would not panic. She would be fine. Everything would be fine.
When I look upon His face, the One who saved me by His grace...
She watched the coffin being released ever so slowly, bit by bit, into the ditch below. And she trembled. "He's dead." She could hear Mama's voice That Night. "Grampa died in his sleep, baby. He's... gone." Grampa was gone. A swelling erupted in her chest, pushing up her throat, threatening to blur her vision. She closed her eyes to hide the sight before her, but it was seared into her memory. That casket with her grampa in it. Her grampa. Her Grampa was dead.
When He takes me by the hand...
A tear escaped her eye, sliding slowly and lazily across her cold cheek. No, Rosemarie. Don't cry. Be strong. Remember Grampa always told you to be strong. But he's not here anymore. He can't tell me that now. She felt her mouth crinkle up at the corners, another tear slipping to her chin. Her throat ached, nose burned and eyes stung. Stop it. Stop NOW! Her chest heaved, her heart pounding out a driving, rhythmic pulse. I can't stop.
And leads me to the Promised Land --
She opened her mouth and screamed. It shattered through the air, halting the song, vibrating throughout her body. "NOOOOO!" She wrenched herself forward, away from her mother's grip, away from her suffocation, toward the coffin with the dead man inside of it. "NOOO - Grampa! Grampa, come back!" She heard Mama's voice, "Rosemarie! Rosemarie, stop!", but she paid her no heed. The tears were coming hard and fast, blurring her vision, spilling across her face. She couldn't see. "Stop! Stoopp!" She tripped on a slick patch of grass and fell to the ground, mud pressing into her bare legs, cold seeping into her bones. "Please, STOP!"
The men lowering her grampa stood frozen, staring at her, eyes wide with horror. She leaned forward on her knees and wailed, the cries caused only by the pain twisting its gnarly fingers around her heart. It was ripping and piercing through her and it hurt. It hurt so much. As if someone had taken a very piece of her being and carved it out, leaving it bleeding and infected, leaving her alone.
Her face burned, the wind whipping at her salty cheeks, at her frozen ears, mocking her miseries. "Grampa," she sobbed, her voice dying out in a whisper. She lay her head between her knees, inches above the clumped, soggy ground. She felt so weak, so tired. Her throat ached from her screams, and pressures of pain were building inside her forehead. She sighed, relaxing her shoulders, unable to stop the tears rolling across her thighs. Gradually, she became aware of the silence, the stillness. It penetrated the air with its peacefulness; so calm you could hear dew drop. Even the wind ceased its nagging.
Then, footsteps. There was a small crunch as a twig snapped, and the slapping and parting of wet grass. She felt a hand on her shoulder, sliding down her back. "Oh, baby, its okay." She knew that voice, and raised her head. Mama's eyes were bright and blooming with tears as she knelt beside her daughter. "We're gonna be okay," she whispered. Rosemarie studied her face, mesmerized by the moisture all across it before crawling into her mama's lap and hugging her tight around the waist. "Why are you crying?" she asked, her voice catching and hiccupping. Mama never cried.
"Sometimes," Mama murmured into her hair very quietly, "in your weakness, you find your strength." Rosemarie was not too sure she knew what that meant but when she felt Mama's body shake against her own, heard her muffled cries, she only clutched her tighter and listened, as the surrounding silence was broken, and the mourners finished their song.
What a day, glorious day, that will be...
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