. A LEGACY OF LOVE
I stood in the small church, supported by the prayers of loved ones, mantled with the soulful whine of the church organ playing its dirge of death. I felt a separation of mind and body. Someone was standing here, but it couldn't be me. The smell of incense permeated my senses, overwhelming with its cloying scent. Next to me, covered with a shroud, stood the casket of my child. I would not look at it, could not.
The words of the priest droned on and on, completing the Mass, and the ceremony finally drew to a close, but I was lost in a sea of unrelated thought. I heard nothing, I felt nothing, except a desire to be done with this, to be free to face my grief alone.
It was over at last. We walked, my family and I, down the endless aisle of concerned, tear‑streaked faces, united in a melange of emotion, following the one who would never again walk among us. Then out into the overcast day, whose sun had the dignity not to shine, we entered the limosines and headed for the cemetery to say our final goodbye.
The ride to the cemetery was torturously slow. We climbed the long winding mountain road to the top of the cemetery, surrounded by grotesquely beautiful tombstones, the only proof of former lives.
Surely this was just a dream. I would awaken soon and rebuke the nightmare that enveloped my senses, sighing with relief. Oh God, please let this be a dream. But no, the grass was too lushly green. Tear‑shaped droplets of rain hung precariously from misted, succulent leaves. The dark gray clouds swirling in anger as the sun tried vainly to push them aside in a futile effort to dominate the day, were too real. Yes, this was actually happening.
There were over a hundred people standing behind me; their silence bearing down upon me like the crush of ocean waves. I fought the compulsion to slide into oblivion and let this travesty proceed without me.
There was a small crucifix on top of the darkly ominous box which was now my daughter's residence. I tried to focus on that one object in an effort to retain my sanity. The voice of the priest, overflowing with empathy, broke the silence with, I was told later, a moving and beautiful eulogy. His words rained down over me, covering me with a compassionate warmth, but I comprehended no meaning. Closing my mind to everything around me, the box and I stood alone together in the macabre stillness of a lonely mountain top, whose residents, except for birds and trees, were all stone‑cold and unfeeling.
There was no life here, not even serenity, just the vacuous emptiness of space and time, devoid of animation. What a cruel, unlikely place to leave one who was so vivacious, so seething with spirit, so very much alive. I had to leave this place. My daughter was not here.
I find your words deeply moving and meaningful, Micki. I cannot imagine what it would be like to lose one's child. Love, peace, healing, and best wishes to you,
Regis
Micki Peluso's And the Whippoorwill Sang, is a MUST READ!
Her heart bears all in this poignant memoir, a legacy she has written for her Noelle, struck down in her youth, not due to anything she was doing, but by the weapon of a man who chose to get behind the wheel of a truck while he was drunk.
Noelle's legacy is not her death, but her life, vivaciousness, her love for her family, and her spirit.
Micki promised Noelle that she would pen this painful journey, where Micki learned.....
To Weep.....
To Laugh.....
To Grieve.......
To Dance.......
THIS IS A MUST READ!
Erin Collins