The Funeral  − 8 March, 1997

I felt prepared going in. I knew that Mark was dead. Sarah and I had gone with my parents to the funeral home to help to select the prayer cards, the casket, the urn. The funeral had been big empty sounds in a full Church. We had walked in behind the pallbearers as they silently moved the casket to the front of the room. There were flowers everywhere. The priest had cried. Nearly everyone had cried. I cannot remember if I cried. The casket had been closed then. I knew that Mark was inside, but I could not see him. I remember thinking that it did not look long enough for his tall body. Afterwards, we drove behind the hearse, a long procession of sadness towards the funeral home. Cars stopped to acknowledge our loss. Pedestrians lowered their heads as we drove by. I felt prepared going into the funeral home for the wake. The prayer cards that we had chosen were set out. The flowers had all been arranged. And then I stepped into the room. And then I stepped into the room where he was lying. The casket had been opened. His eyes were closed; his hands were folded neatly on his chest. I felt my breath rush out of me as though I had been hit. I backed out of the room and collapsed into a chair outside of the doors. Someone passed me a box of tissues. Maybe they said something as well. All I was aware of was the pain blooming in my chest, and the way that it left little room for breathing. All I could do was sob. Grief is so physical – you feel it everywhere. The image of him lying so still inside of that wooden box will never, ever leave me.