Fractured Wrist Chronicles: Day Seven, victory and perspective


I push Mom on her new throne at the funeral, St. Monica’s Church, where Dad used to be a deacon. Notice my new “funereal” clothes; didn’t want to stick out so I went shopping at a cut-rate department store nearby, “Marshall’s”? Can’t remember. Sister Kristin told me about it. Her daughter Bridget picked out Mom’s get-up for the day. The family all agreed, that though there were around 250 people at this funeral, it was not for us, but for them. The parishioners, largely. We had been meeting and reminiscing for five days straight. Mom was still ensconced in family love, her mourning process largely postponed. Isn’t that always the case? So hard to start processing loss when you need to, RIGHT AWAY. Instead, grabbed by the pageantry of the mysterious drama we call “death,” we are temporarily lifted up, in suspension. I might call my enforced “break,” of nearly a week ago, my body’s way of dragging me into the reality of the fact that my father has just disappeared from our lives.

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