Chapter One
B-R-A-V-E
Five letters.
Two Vowels.
Three Consonants.
Really not much of anything until you put them together. When merged, they form a word that encompasses a meaning previously foreign to me. Today I was struggling to comprehend its intent. I stood tall, squared my shoulders, and wore a gentle smile on my face. Today I was projecting the epitome of the strength I did not have. Today I was burying my true feelings, all while holding something precious and irreplaceable in my arms.
An urn.
The memorial service was a new experience for me. Set several weeks after Judge’s passing, the sting of death was no less painful now. I had hoped that it would be. Instead, it tore at the newly formed scabs on my heart. Judge had dictated his desires concerning the marking of his passing. Part of me wished he had planned this himself, but another part was honored to carry out his requests. Cremation was also new to me. My father's final resting place was beside a shallow pond. A beautiful small gazebo completed the landscape of serenity and I had spent much time sitting near his grave to cry my heart out. Now I had a cobalt blue and silver urn that would accompany me home. Where is the perfect place to put an urn? A mantle? A functional but decorative shelf in the family room? Was this a dilemma faced by the best interior decorators?
As my mind volleyed simple thoughts to deflect the grief, one-by-one, mourners began to exit the church. I stood in the back to greet them, similar to a receiving line after a wedding, only it was somber. People paused in front of me, faces downcast. They kissed my cheek, embraced me, and shared a sorrowful sentiment.
I will not cry.
I will not cry.
I will not cry.
I repeated the mantra over and over, tumbling the words in my mind as I cemented a mental picture of a multi-flavored pack of Life Savers candies. Don’t ask me why. All I know is that everything around me was so black that I was drowning. Color was my lifeline and I was parched, thirsting for it. The rainbow-colored paper surrounding the lozenge-type sweets was the first image that popped into my head. I desperately clung to the vision.
Goose bumps raised on my arms as people touched me. Unlike most of the other times in my life, I was unable to register any feeling other than death. I didn’t like it. I had been blessed, or cursed, with an ability to sense things more intensely than most people. Whenever I made a skin connection, whether through a hug or handshake, I could gauge a person’s intent. Some called it discernment, others referenced it as a psychic ability. It was something that I had never asked for, yet a power with which I had to live. As a child, I had argued with God that I was made wrong in the heavenly factory. I didn’t like the sensation I got when near a person who was sad or discontent, yet I was thrilled to feel the happiness or joy of another. For some reason, the only thing that registered through my skin today was ice. Comfort escaped me. As condolences reached my ears, the temperature of the sentiments turned frigid. The invisible tally taking place in the back of my mind registered the name and degree of cold from everyone who approached me. The sorrow accumulating from each person piled high as it encircled my throat. Frozen fingers, tightening with each connection, had me nearly choking by the time the last person had turned and walked away from me. Judge could no longer feel his pain.
I wasn’t so lucky.
As I carried the urn to my car, the heaviness of the weight surprised me. The heat of the cremation had refined his bones and blood to ashes. I’d never anticipated the poundage of a human reduced to fine particles; my only experience had been with fire or cigarettes. I had chosen the container based on my knowledge of my husband’s favorite colors. I held it like I would a baby, careful not to drop such precious cargo. I imagined the container including not only what remained of his body, but also the weighted representation of hopes realized, dreams not so, and the remainder of the years that we would never see together. I was desperate to sequester myself as I closed the door behind me.
I sat in the driver’s seat and, through the spotty windshield, spotted the trail of people making their way from the church to their cars. It had rained as the service was going on. The damp air clung to my clothes, forcing me to inhale the pungent aroma of wet earth. Although I had always liked the rain, I feared that from now on the scent would forever linger unfavorably in my mind. Was moving forward in my life even a possibility for me? I couldn't be sure.
I shook my head to clear my thoughts as I prepared myself to be in the company of others. I had planned a commemoration luncheon celebrating my husband's life to immediately follow the service, but the truth of the matter was that minutes were ticking by while I was frozen. I was losing myself in the minutes ticking by. I felt I had lost the ability to measure time.
How could I imagine my life existing beyond today?
How would I face tomorrow without Judge?