8 of 110

Write now Article Tools

November Rain

The rain falls softly, hitting the pavement with a hollow ping. I stand frozen, watching the raindrops hit the blacktop and run in different directions to sink beneath the sodden grass. The wind is bitterly cold and feels like needles as it tears through my coat and burns my hands and face. I inhale deeply, closing my eyes. A teardrop slides down between my nose and cheek before joining the rain on the cemetery lawn.

Strangers in black coats, black hats, black shoes, their faces blurry and unfamiliar, pass in front of me as they enter the funeral home. The silence of the morning is interrupted only by the rain, and an occasional sniff or sob of a family member or friend. But not from me, I cry quietly, discreetly, carrying my grief deep inside of me.

The smoke billows up into a gray sky and I think for the thousandth time that I
should quit. I have seen too much death recently not to heed more warnings. Yet the cigarettes are sometimes all that bring me back to center, reminding me to inhale and exhale.

Family moves by and files into the familiar building, one member squeezing my hand and nodding at me, her own eyes full of tears. I look at the doors, at the awning, at the ashtrays flanking the sidewalks. I know this place too well. It is here we used to come with my grandmother as we walked the graves and she told us stories about this relative or that. I was always fascinated by the little ones with lambs and angels the graves of children and wanted to know how they died. It is my turn now to remember the stories and tell them when someone asks.

My grandfather rests under the cold marble stone near the edge of the little winding road. The earth is still soft three plots away where we buried my stepfather barely a month ago. In between them on the left is an open bed. And it is here, today, that we bury my grandmother.

I take a deep breath with my hand on the door, a thousand memories and images running through my mind. I hear this dull noise that seems to be coming from somewhere inside my head. Stepping into the entry way, I see these women with their families and think how much they are like strangers in many ways, yet not. We have all been shaped and molded by the woman we are burying today. We spent years going with her to the beauty parlor, learning to cook, to sew, to crochet. We keep cookie jars in our kitchens, safety pins on the inside of our jackets, nail files in our purses all because

• 1
• 2
• 3
• 4
• next page >>

Add your voice

Know something about Memoirs: Death of a loved one?
We want to hear your view. Write now!