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Miller H Caldwell, click here
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10 year old Michael observes his mother's funeral and takes his first step into a future without her.
Mother’s Funeral
by
Michael (aged 10)
Mother’s death came suddenly. The family had been a unit of four but now was three - an odd number - and I felt the odd one out. Mother had been always available to oversee my achievements however humble and rectify my regular failings. And she overlooked my mischief too. But her vacuum was felt acutely that morning.
‘Well, Michael, you seem to have grown a foot or two since I last saw you’ said an uncle whom I had not seen since I visited him two summers ago at his seaside home in Dorset. His remark meant nothing to me for I was still the smallest in the class. I chose not to reply. My silence embarrassed him and with a reassuring pat on my back he moved away.
‘Hello Aunt Mae.’ I was determined not to remain silent and this aunt had always been most talkative to me in the past. But she too was drained of words. This was not the vital family I had known. Where was the happiness, the laughing? I had never seen such close relatives without smiling faces.
Time more than any factor broke the barrier which was impeding communication and when the funeral service was over, I sensed some life ebbing back into the house. I poured coffee into cups while relatives talked of their plans for their summer holidays. I just had to break in.
‘Uncle, is Milford – on – Sea in England?
This time my question reached its mark.
‘That’s right Michael. It’s in Hampshire not far from Southampton where the Atlantic Liners come in. You would like it there. I’m sure.’
‘Oh yes’ I replied enthusiastically. Then I thought as I sat with my sister by the fire, what a holiday without mother would be like.
‘No, no I don’t think I’d like Milford – on Sea.’
‘Why ever not?’ asked Aunt Mae but all I could bring myself to say was, ‘I don’t know.’
I felt increasingly secure as the funeral faces of my relatives relaxed into expressions that I knew. Father was more active than usual as he called to announce lunch was ready. He helped Aunt Mae to prepare and serve the meal but I was unaware of the significance of his chores. I still expected Mum to come through the dining room door with the silver plated teapot, but the teapot came without her.
My sister assumed many of the other roles I had seen my mother perform in the course of a busy day’s work but she had not yet acquired the perfection Mum had achieved through her years of service to us and I felt my sister never would. I somehow knew apple pie would never taste the same again nor would breakfast every morning be complete without mother chasing us off to school. Who would do all the things that we accepted only too readily?
Evening came early to the grief stricken house and soon relatives were leaving, returning to continue with their own busy lives. They left as silently as they came. When the last car left the drive and mingled with the stream of city bound cars, I was for the first time, aware that I was lonely. This was the beginning of a permanent void.
However, when I returned to the sitting room, I saw not only my father, but within that man, a mother. Qualities I had associated with my mother were indeed visible in him although I had been blind to them before. He caressed my head and patted my back.
‘School tomorrow, Michael? Can you make it?
A hard lump hit the back of my throat. I looked up at him.
‘Yes Dad. I’ll go. Let’s make the packed lunches.’
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Left me with a lump hard to swallow!!
Love Tinka
The insight is remarkable. You captured the essence of the moment. A wonderful piece.
Cynthia
Accept my condolences.
(((HUGS))) and love, your Tx. friend, Kare Lynn. :( >tears <