In Mourning

Georgia’s eyes were milky with cataracts, blind. A navy suit hung in the closet of the room, long-skirted and somber for the occasion. Not black — too formal, she’d thought when in the store a few months back. Navy conveyed regret without being in-your-face about all this funeral business. And the color of the suit matched her once-clear eyes. “Blue as the coming twilight,” her husband told her when they’d first met.

Arthur had been young then and filled with the poetry of youth. So had she, never knowing the waste of years ahead — not wasted years, mind, but time had a way of wasting itself, of being taken advantage of and discarded like yesterday’s candy. Thrown away, piece by piece, until the sweetness was gone and the outer wrapping was finally discarded, too.

Dressed, she looked more herself. Or what she’d always thought of herself, even with all the hard years stacked up behind her. Those early days of the marriage, before the kids had come — oh, how they’d enjoyed themselves! Dancing every Saturday night, regular as clocks. No worries of leaking pipes or snotty noses — no headaches, raised voices, slammed doors. Just laughter and music every weekend.

She looked too stiff when finally dressed, her joints gnarled and bent with age. Not how she’d pictured she’d look in her beautiful suit. Her thinning white hair was brushed away from the spotted skin of her forehead and hair sprayed into her usual half-foot coif. It was the way proper ladies used to wear their hair.

Not like now, not with these girls growing up today. Forget about the kids her grandchildren’s age. Some of them shaved their heads like men. They had boyish bodies too, thin and sticklike with no breasts or hips. No curves. Short hair was fine, but it needed a certain tilt to it. A feminine woman made a man feel like a man. Girls today — was it any wonder there was so much divorce?

Not Arthur and her — no question that they’d lasted. They’d lasted forever. ’Til death do us part.

Collar adjusted just a tad, but it didn’t seem to make much of a difference. She supposed it didn’t matter how she looked. That wasn’t the point of the funeral, was it? The point was remembering the life of the deceased — celebrating it, in fact. Not worrying about how one old lady looked in a suit.

She was ready — but these things always ran slow. Georgia had to wait.

Was her ride even here yet? She hadn’t driven a car since her eyes grew dim and her hands lost their steadiness. It made more sense to stop driving rather than let them take away her license — so it became her choice, not theirs. Though it was frustrating, always being dependent on others. Arthur had driven for years longer than she did, but he was crazy stubborn. Always had been.

She’d hated that about him.

But during the illness, he’d smiled every time he saw her, smiled as if he were looking at her fifty years ago for the first time — despite the deterioration, despite the pain he felt.

Stubborn old cuss. She’d loved that about him.

The clock ticked. Where were they?

Finally, footsteps sounded outside. Finally, the door opened.

Time to go.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Arthur was the first one in the room. He moved through the space in a slow shuffle, but he eventually reached her side, gently touched her face. His palm was warm and solid and familiar.

He moved his hand upwards to close the mahogany lid. Darkness followed light.

She had seen him, and there was no longer any reason to linger. She had said her goodbyes long before this moment.

Georgia stretched and eased past Arthur standing beside her, head bowed. Six men picked up the coffin and carried it towards the door, but she no longer felt tethered to it. Arthur shuffled after.

Her eyes turned back before the sky closed over her head. She would take with her one last glimpse, one last moment, one last memory.

Now, she could finally fly free.