The Art of Being Unsure

I think of it as a skill, being unsure, for how can one ever be sure that they are unsure?

As my mind trails off on to another tangent, my index finger weaves around the lace doily on my grandmother's oak dining table, tracing its delicate loops and floral patterns and for a moment I wish I could be a design, perhaps a character in a painting. Oozing beauty but lifelessness.

In this image, I imagine myself reclining elegantly on the garden grounds of the French Riviera, sipping Melon de Bourgogne tastefully, whilst enjoying the company of my husband. In this painting, my clothes would be tailored, and the colours vibrant, matching the parasol overhead. My cheeks would be sun-kissed and my hair moving as carelessly as I, in a moment which captures the true essence of happiness.

However, the painting in my vision begins to burn as the realisation darkens my thoughts. for I have not once been to France, or had my clothes tailored. I have never felt love, let alone been married. Perhaps the happiness in the imagined painting was as close as I would get to such a reality and my mind had sought to remind me of the true, bleak nature of my existence.

As my thoughts slip further into the abyss, I regain my sense and jerk my head up suddenly at the sound of concern.

"Well? Maria, what shall we do?"

Sat here, in all black, three hours before my father's funeral it occurs to me that I have become the family's decision maker. Yet, considering it took me a grand total of two days to decide which of the two remarkably similar black dresses I should wear today, I am undoubtedly inexperienced for this role.

"Maria, the rest of the family will be arriving at the church within the next half hour, and we have still not decided how to get there. Please will you pay attention."

I recognise the sternness of that voice, for my aunt shares my father's tone as well as several other qualities, which would explain why her presence had always made me feel slightly uneasy.

"Do calm down Auntie Carol, won't you? The church is very close and I am sure with there only being four of us here, we could travel in one car. Nonetheless, I believe the air would do me well, thus I will walk to the church and meet you all there."

My own disposition surprised me, and for a moment I felt proud. Aunt Carol on the other hand, looked as though I had suggested sprouting wings and flying over there. Her slick grey hair sat like stone on her head, as she patted it down nervously and her thin, wispy red lips were now twitching with annoyance.

"Maria, please do not be ridiculous. You will not be walking to the church on the way to your father's funeral. Do you have no consideration or understanding as to why that would be completely inappropriate. What would we say when the neighbours see? Honestly, the notion is absurd-"

"Dear Carol, the poor girl has not had a second to herself since the accident, I for one think she could use the air and perhaps a few minutes to collect her thoughts before the service."

Carol stared at her husband in contempt, she had always hated when Uncle Roger openly defied her, although, to make a scene further would cause for more unwelcome discussion. Accordingly, I readied myself for the journey, pulling on my mother's old cardigan, and wrapping myself up in a scarf before beginning the walk to the church.

A walk I hoped would last a lifetime.