Flowers For My Sister’s Funeral

The ground outside the chapel was frozen, barren and covered with a thin blanket of fresh snow even though it was already spring.   Yet the landscape was beautiful and serene belying the sadness that the chapel walls contained.  I can’t believe I’m at my sister’s funeral.  That was what I thought as I sat in the second pew of a dimmed funeral chapel in Washington, D.C.  I sat there in silence with my head hung down and tears streaming down my face.  So many thoughts raced through my mind. How could she die? She was too young. Why am I here? I can’t do this. My mind told me to get up and get out of that chapel of death but my legs wouldn’t obey the command.  It was not irrational to want to leave but it would be unreasonable to leave when my family needed me.  I raised my head to survey the room once again.  It was a pretty good turn out of Desiree’s family and friends.  The small cozy chapel was full but not crowded.  People were dressed mostly in black, brown and purple.  Some women wore hats, others did not. People sat quietly or whispered softy while admiring the program.  “She really looks good,” some said of the picture of Desiree on the front of the program.  It was an old picture of her that I dug up from a box of papers and photos in her apartment after she died. “She was so young,” said others because Desiree was only fifty-five when she died.  No one spoke of the cause of her death because it just wasn’t discussed.  I heard a woman behind me say, “The eulogy is so beautiful. I felt like I was introduced to Desiree all over again.”  I took that as confirmation that I had done a good job.  Writing Desiree’s eulogy was the hardest thing for me to do.  The next day after she died I went to her apartment and spent the afternoon there.  I wanted to feel her spirit and be amongst the things that she held dearest to get inspiration for the eulogy.  I learned so much about Desiree that after noon.  I found out that she was a volunteer at a neighborhood clinic where she worked with adolescent Aids victims.  I struck gold when I found the volumes of diaries that she had written.  Desiree wrote eloquently about her life and she never seemed to miss a day except recently when she was hospitalized.  I was moved by her strength to be able to write about the most painful parts of her life with such vivid detail that to write it must have been to relive it.

My head felt heavy and it ached slightly.  I rubbed my temples for relief but it didn’t help.  Everything in the chapel looked so damn dark. The walls were covered with dark brown wallpaper dotted with tiny maroon-colored fleur-de-lis designs that were the same color of my dress.  The pews were made of wood stained dark brown.  The podium that the funeral director would use to try and fail to comfort us was black lacquer.  I thought that a funeral chapel should be brightly decorated to distract the reluctant attendees from their purpose for being there but the whole scene made the event even more morbid. 

Strangely it felt as if my senses were magnified allowing me to notice even the most insignificant things.  The faint smell of pine cleaner was distinguishable from the musky smell of the funeral director’s cologne and the aroma of fresh flowers.  I could hear the soft tapping of Danny’s bony fingers on the hard wooden pew and I looked over at him to comfort his sadness.  His lips curved into a half smile letting me know he appreciated my gesture and I turned away again.  I could feel his pain.

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