Mourning

Kara left the ceremony at half-past ten. Hefting her purse over her right shoulder, she moved as quickly and deftly as she could down the aisle, towards the doors that led out of the small church where the ceremony had been held.

“Wrong way.” She whispered to herself with a fallen smile. It was only an acute sense of irony that turned the corners of her mouth upward; she might have even laughed, had she been past the heavy wooden doors and the earshot of Michael’s mother. Kara grimaced as the thought ground its way down through her, burning like a fire through her body, leaving, for just a brief moment, the naked pain.

She clutched senselessly at the heavy fabric of her skirt—too heavy for this time of year—as she dressed herself back up inside. She zipped herself up tight, tied the loose ends up swiftly and carefully with the precision and accuracy of a surgeon. She rearranged her thoughts, the features of her face following suit. Acquiescence: this was the hardest to feel, but it was the best way to mourn Michael. It was somber, dignified, and sullen. It was accepting the inevitable. It was correct.

It was summer time in the city, and, as she stepped out the doors to the church, the sky cast a hue so flawless that it struck Kara and left her motionless, taken all at once by the overwhelming beauty of the day. She tilted her head upwards, searching the formless white clouds for nothing and anything. It was like a painting to her, without dimension, just beyond reach. For a moment, she entertained the thought that he was up there, hidden just behind one of those still, pale clouds, waiting for her, perhaps watching. But she could not believe that. She had only moments ago seen his face, his body, made up, slid into his only suit. His smell lingered faintly in overtones despite the heavy scent of chemicals. And in spite of the eerie flawlessness of his complexion, Kara was sure that it had been Michael in that casket; so he could not, in fact, be some invisible fixture in the sky painted above the city; nor ever would he be. In just a few hours, they would snap the lid shut on his coffin and drop him into the earth so that he could get on with it all, so that time could undo Michael’s flesh just as deftly and secretly as it had made him.

He haunted her now; even on the streets and in places through which they had never walked.
Even as the days and weeks passed, Kara felt him at her side. it was a sense of omnipresence that did not comfort. It left her uneasy. It was as if she now would have to live her life in the shadow of Michael’s death. Laughter was but a bitter taste in her mouth.

The streets were alive with people. They moved with a sense of quiet certainty in spite of the tumultuous rhythm of the city surrounding them. It seemed almost eerie to Kara, all these silent people juxtaposed against the ceaseless swell of noise. Death is a fact; this Kara had now begun to understand. It is a fact that is colder and harder than the body it renders. And all the niceties--the black dresses, the veils, the silence, the repetitive responses, the tears-- were mild outward manifestations of the absolute agony inside. To mourn, she also learned, was a selfish act. It was not so much Michael that had died as it was that part of her life. She felt weak, as if someone had run up to her in the darkness, beaten her, and stolen half her life away. Kara felt robbed. Mourning—Kara thought to herself, was not a thing she could not carry on doing for any length at all; she could not imagine waking each morning for the rest of her life, and wrapping every inch of her grief in transparent smiles and contented gestures. At any moment, she was certain that she would burst into flames, tear off her clothes and go running down the street in a wild parade of fire and depravity.