Not quietly at ninety, a few mourners, a cleric using dismal platitudes. But disastrously. Throngs crammed into pews.
All tagged funeral
Not quietly at ninety, a few mourners, a cleric using dismal platitudes. But disastrously. Throngs crammed into pews.
I comb through her closet, a history of her body and life before dementia and heart failure.
“I’ve brought you some red roses from my garden, Mum.” “I don’t want those. They symbolise death,” she retorted, grumpy as ever.
Guests whisper and I hear. “She’s in shock.” “Foreigners don’t cry.” “Immigrants lose their roots.”
The cries rise to a crescendo just as the casket is lowered into a pit. A chorus breaks out in lament against a stifling air heavy with the scent of grief.