the first story...
Week 1 - Death at the Funeral
A light sobbing could be heard distinctively over the general silence. Many people kept streaming through the open doors of the hall. Many of these people I have never seen before. However, they seem to know me, casting looks of sympathy. A look that was as strange as the faces of these people.
I stood at the open doors, next to father and I held onto father’s pants, tightly, with my little fingers. Father’s face was grim. There was nothing especially different about father’s expression. His face was set in a typical grim look that bordered close to being expressionless. He gingerly shook all the hands of everyone that walked in through the open doors. I just stood there next to him, not speaking, just staring. As if I was part of the furnishings. It felt like an eternity.
I could hear the sobbing getting louder. Mother was there, near the front of the hall. Mother was sobbing. I could not understand why I was often chided for crying yet father did nothing when mother was now sobbing at length. I wanted to ask father why. However, deep inside me, I knew the tears that mother was shedding were different from the ones that grace my eyes.
The hall was large. It was larger than most places that I’ve been in my life, but it was definitely one of the cleanest places that I’ve seen. The white floors, walls and ceiling just made it clear that the place was made to be clean. The chairs and the table cloth were white as well. It was an overdose of cleanliness, an overdose of whiteness.
The people came in garments of black, a stark contrast to the clean white environment. However, the people that came seem adverse to the cleanliness. In fact, their actions seem to imply that the place was in fact dirty beyond my wildest dreams. As if sitting on the white cushioned chairs would leave a stain on their black garments, diluting themselves. I, myself was clad in a tiny black suit and I couldn’t wait to sit on the white cushions. They were inviting.
A sudden jerk pulled me out of my daydream. I looked up. Father’s grim face forced a weak smile as I looked up. His hand enveloped mine in his and at once I knew everything was fine. With his other hand he closed the doors and the room seem to ready itself for whatever that all these people had gathered here for. The hall grew quiet, and relatively colder, but because my hand was within my father’s, it didn’t matter.
Walking past the chairs of people, we travelled down the aisle. Everyone looked sad, some more than others. But generally, everyone looked sad. I wanted to ask why they were all here. However, father’s pace as he walked down the aisle didn’t give me a chance to. We finally reached the front of the hall and I saw grandpa’s picture placed in front of the bed that he was sleeping in. Grandpa was always sleeping. I couldn’t make too much noise in case I roused him. Apparently, all these people didn’t want to wake grandpa up as well.
Passing my hand to mother, father whispered to us to get seated. Father then put his hand onto grandma’s shoulders. Grandma was stoic, her face didn’t betray any sign of emotions that might have surged and raged underneath. Father gathered grandma, and held her as we made our way to the seats left empty for us. I sat next to mother and placed my head gently in her arms and curled up. Mother had stopped crying, the tears shut off as if by command. Father sat next to grandma, holding her frail hands in his.
Lying on mother, it seemed another eternity before anything else stirred in the hall. The people that had gathered just sat staring at grandpa sleeping, and we were leading them in staring. Sitting right at the front, we led in staring at grandpa sleep. Grandpa’s sleep was so enticing. I wondered too if great number of people gathered whenever I slept. Soon, all the wondering turned to a great blur as I too drifted to sleep, dreaming of a great congregation gathering to watch me sleep.
A gentle rocking lulled me from my dreams as I looked up to see myself being carried by father. Mother held grandma as grandma held grandpa’s photograph. They followed a few steps behind, walking ever so slowly, so gently, as if still trying to not wake grandpa up. However, the huge white hall had emptied out. We were the only ones left. Even grandpa had left. I couldn’t see grandpa at the front of the hall, even his bed had gone.
Once more we are standing at the open doors. Father’s eyes were slightly reddened as if he too had been crying. I couldn’t be too sure, I hadn’t seen it happen, neither have I ever remembered father ever shedding a tear. Yes, it seemed unlikely that father might have cried. Father turned to look at me, and said in a low voice, “Grandpa has gone to a better place, a place flowing with milk and honey.”
I nodded. One of those nods that I always used when I couldn’t be sure if I truly understood. At least the place that father described sounds like somewhere I can imagine. At this, father smiled and shook his head.
“You nod as if you understand, but how can I expect a 5 year old to understand death.” Father patted me gently and asked if I were hungry.
A light sobbing could be heard distinctively over the general silence. Many people kept streaming through the open doors of the hall. Many of these people I have never seen before. However, they seem to know me, casting looks of sympathy. A look that was as strange as the faces of these people.
I stood at the open doors, next to father and I held onto father’s pants, tightly, with my little fingers. Father’s face was grim. There was nothing especially different about father’s expression. His face was set in a typical grim look that bordered close to being expressionless. He gingerly shook all the hands of everyone that walked in through the open doors. I just stood there next to him, not speaking, just staring. As if I was part of the furnishings. It felt like an eternity.
I could hear the sobbing getting louder. Mother was there, near the front of the hall. Mother was sobbing. I could not understand why I was often chided for crying yet father did nothing when mother was now sobbing at length. I wanted to ask father why. However, deep inside me, I knew the tears that mother was shedding were different from the ones that grace my eyes.
The hall was large. It was larger than most places that I’ve been in my life, but it was definitely one of the cleanest places that I’ve seen. The white floors, walls and ceiling just made it clear that the place was made to be clean. The chairs and the table cloth were white as well. It was an overdose of cleanliness, an overdose of whiteness.
The people came in garments of black, a stark contrast to the clean white environment. However, the people that came seem adverse to the cleanliness. In fact, their actions seem to imply that the place was in fact dirty beyond my wildest dreams. As if sitting on the white cushioned chairs would leave a stain on their black garments, diluting themselves. I, myself was clad in a tiny black suit and I couldn’t wait to sit on the white cushions. They were inviting.
A sudden jerk pulled me out of my daydream. I looked up. Father’s grim face forced a weak smile as I looked up. His hand enveloped mine in his and at once I knew everything was fine. With his other hand he closed the doors and the room seem to ready itself for whatever that all these people had gathered here for. The hall grew quiet, and relatively colder, but because my hand was within my father’s, it didn’t matter.
Walking past the chairs of people, we travelled down the aisle. Everyone looked sad, some more than others. But generally, everyone looked sad. I wanted to ask why they were all here. However, father’s pace as he walked down the aisle didn’t give me a chance to. We finally reached the front of the hall and I saw grandpa’s picture placed in front of the bed that he was sleeping in. Grandpa was always sleeping. I couldn’t make too much noise in case I roused him. Apparently, all these people didn’t want to wake grandpa up as well.
Passing my hand to mother, father whispered to us to get seated. Father then put his hand onto grandma’s shoulders. Grandma was stoic, her face didn’t betray any sign of emotions that might have surged and raged underneath. Father gathered grandma, and held her as we made our way to the seats left empty for us. I sat next to mother and placed my head gently in her arms and curled up. Mother had stopped crying, the tears shut off as if by command. Father sat next to grandma, holding her frail hands in his.
Lying on mother, it seemed another eternity before anything else stirred in the hall. The people that had gathered just sat staring at grandpa sleeping, and we were leading them in staring. Sitting right at the front, we led in staring at grandpa sleep. Grandpa’s sleep was so enticing. I wondered too if great number of people gathered whenever I slept. Soon, all the wondering turned to a great blur as I too drifted to sleep, dreaming of a great congregation gathering to watch me sleep.
A gentle rocking lulled me from my dreams as I looked up to see myself being carried by father. Mother held grandma as grandma held grandpa’s photograph. They followed a few steps behind, walking ever so slowly, so gently, as if still trying to not wake grandpa up. However, the huge white hall had emptied out. We were the only ones left. Even grandpa had left. I couldn’t see grandpa at the front of the hall, even his bed had gone.
Once more we are standing at the open doors. Father’s eyes were slightly reddened as if he too had been crying. I couldn’t be too sure, I hadn’t seen it happen, neither have I ever remembered father ever shedding a tear. Yes, it seemed unlikely that father might have cried. Father turned to look at me, and said in a low voice, “Grandpa has gone to a better place, a place flowing with milk and honey.”
I nodded. One of those nods that I always used when I couldn’t be sure if I truly understood. At least the place that father described sounds like somewhere I can imagine. At this, father smiled and shook his head.
“You nod as if you understand, but how can I expect a 5 year old to understand death.” Father patted me gently and asked if I were hungry.
Labels: written in prose
posted by alvin_c at 10:41 pm
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