Funeral

Indigo honey from blueberry bees dressed in sadness drips slowly down the faces of all those crowded into the small room. We couldn’t afford a bigger hall, though they deserved one. This small, cheaply decorated room has witnessed so many storms brewing on the brows of those fighting tears, and yet it has failed to soften its demeanor. Cold bare walls stare blankly back at eyes drowning in salty unstoppable sorrow. They offer no warmth; we lean against walls expecting rich wood paneling to encompass us in understanding. Walls worn into comfort by wind, hands, feet, tears, laughs, and kisses. But in the confines of this tiny dreaded chamber there is only icy metal: impenetrable and unforgiving. It’ll let you bruise before letting its falsely perfect surface tarnish and rust from bearing some of our pain. We wanted to refuse this place, not from its appearance but because relenting and gathering here would signal the tears to flow, would force into our faces the fact that we had given up. Better to be in a cold, linoleum-floored hospital- wounds rushing past, and people in long white coats talking in hushed tones and keeping secrets- than to be sitting here unable to flee. The pain follows: a sad smile, a tear-stained face, and it all sinks into our skin like a signature scent that only we notice and only we can’t bear. At least if we were still stuck in a hospital, there was hope.