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Description
A silent moment passes. The room trembles quietly with the muffled sounds of mourning. He lays in front of us; cold, silent, dead. The black against my skin itches, but I hold myself still. A child sits next to me, pudgy legs dangling into shiny, tar colored flats. It breaks my heart to know that she is mine, only mine now. It is her father in that polished oak box. A father she will not know, will not remember. She will never be aware of how he had loved her, held her in one arm and her mother in the other.
A tear slides down my paler than snow skin. Later, I will weep. When someone has taken the little girl for a moment I will curse God. When no one is watching I will cling to the last bits of his scent on our pillows. I will sob until my eyes burn and my body aches, wracked by the pain that comes with having half of yourself ripped away. Yes, later, I will weep.
I suppose I should have grieved sooner. When we'd been told there was nothing else the doctors could do. I had refused to stain our last moments together with grief though. I maintained a strong face, holding on to him and coating every moment with love.
Now I regret that. I wish I had clung to him and wept with him. I wish I could've held so tight that Death would have thought us one and taken me with my sweet, dear, perfect Matthew.
Guilt washes over me as the child pulls on my sleeve. I stare down at her; into her tear washed eyes. His eyes. Her quivering lips move silently, forming into invisible words of a grief that only children know. My whole soul becomes repulsed by the idea of leaving behind this defenseless, grieving angel. I pull her onto my lap, leaning my head against hers and together we let our tears run loose, crashing together like warring beasts, drowning in our shared sorrow.
No one halts us for minutes that seem to stretch like days. The funeral must go on, however, past these moments of remembrance. Six men come to the front; his two best friends, Dylan and Marcus, his brother, Danny, my brother, Jonathan, and our fathers. They surround the coffin and then somberly lift it to their shoulders.
I lead the crowd after them, Mariella in my arms. We sit through the inching procession, in the silent shrouded car. The child's head against my chest; my arms hugged tightly around her. By the time we reach the cemetery, she and I have become a single force against the grief.
It is a cruelly bright day as they rest him, wrapped in wood, on a mantle of sorts. Mariella stands on her own, next to me. We watch the earth lick its lips in anticipation for my husband, her father. There is a short sermon that does not comfort me.
The crowd slowly disperses. Each individual touching the girl's head, my shoulder and offering their condolences. I nod and mutter a 'thank you' each time. Mariella ignores them, staring at the wretch atop the coffin. Watching her, I catch a glimpse of a much older woman. She is not a child anymore.
I fall to my knees beside her, pulling her into my arms, weeping. She presses a tiny hand against my cheeks and stares at me with deep, blue eyes, tears streaming over her cherub cheeks.
We are alone. Only we remain. She and I against the world that had stolen a piece of our family. She nods to me, understanding without speaking, and I gingerly touch my lips to her forehead. I stand and we walk to the car where, thankfully, Dylan had left the keys.

Description
A silent moment passes. The room trembles quietly with the muffled sounds of mourning. He lays in front of us; cold, silent, dead. The black against my skin itches, but I hold myself still. A child sits next to me, pudgy legs dangling into shiny, tar colored flats. It breaks my heart to know that she is mine, only mine now. It is her father in that polished oak box. A father she will not know, will not remember. She will never be aware of how he had loved her, held her in one arm and her mother in the other.
A tear slides down my paler than snow skin. Later, I will weep. When someone has taken the little girl for a moment I will curse God. When no one is watching I will cling to the last bits of his scent on our pillows. I will sob until my eyes burn and my body aches, wracked by the pain that comes with having half of yourself ripped away. Yes, later, I will weep.
I suppose I should have grieved sooner. When we'd been told there was nothing else the doctors could do. I had refused to stain our last moments together with grief though. I maintained a strong face, holding on to him and coating every moment with love.
Now I regret that. I wish I had clung to him and wept with him. I wish I could've held so tight that Death would have thought us one and taken me with my sweet, dear, perfect Matthew.
Guilt washes over me as the child pulls on my sleeve. I stare down at her; into her tear washed eyes. His eyes. Her quivering lips move silently, forming into invisible words of a grief that only children know. My whole soul becomes repulsed by the idea of leaving behind this defenseless, grieving angel. I pull her onto my lap, leaning my head against hers and together we let our tears run loose, crashing together like warring beasts, drowning in our shared sorrow.
No one halts us for minutes that seem to stretch like days. The funeral must go on, however, past these moments of remembrance. Six men come to the front; his two best friends, Dylan and Marcus, his brother, Danny, my brother, Jonathan, and our fathers. They surround the coffin and then somberly lift it to their shoulders.
I lead the crowd after them, Mariella in my arms. We sit through the inching procession, in the silent shrouded car. The child's head against my chest; my arms hugged tightly around her. By the time we reach the cemetery, she and I have become a single force against the grief.
It is a cruelly bright day as they rest him, wrapped in wood, on a mantle of sorts. Mariella stands on her own, next to me. We watch the earth lick its lips in anticipation for my husband, her father. There is a short sermon that does not comfort me.
The crowd slowly disperses. Each individual touching the girl's head, my shoulder and offering their condolences. I nod and mutter a 'thank you' each time. Mariella ignores them, staring at the wretch atop the coffin. Watching her, I catch a glimpse of a much older woman. She is not a child anymore.
I fall to my knees beside her, pulling her into my arms, weeping. She presses a tiny hand against my cheeks and stares at me with deep, blue eyes, tears streaming over her cherub cheeks.
We are alone. Only we remain. She and I against the world that had stolen a piece of our family. She nods to me, understanding without speaking, and I gingerly touch my lips to her forehead. I stand and we walk to the car where, thankfully, Dylan had left the keys.