I am a pitiful sight on the altar, in my best suit, unshaven and disheveled. The priest moves between the pews as if floating, holding a censer filled with incense. When he reaches the casket he swings the censer to and fro several times. The smoke billows and when it reaches me I surrender to it. My wife sits hunched over in the front row as if reeling from a blow to the stomach. Her eyes are dead, face ashen, lips bare and dry. Our teenage daughter weeps quietly by her side, cuddling her mother’s hand in both of hers.
My five-year-old Henry is inside the casket dressed for naptime in his green fleece Dinosaur pajamas, his arms wrapped around a framed picture of his Momma, Daddy and big sister. His favorite book, When You Give a Pig a Pancake, is tucked next to him. The casket is obscenely small.
The priest is taking his seat on the altar and nodding in my direction. I stare blindly at the eulogy in my hands, written in one sitting at Henry’s bedside.
After six months in the hospital the tumor in his brain would not be defeated. Henry’s doctors — my colleagues, my friends — told us to take him home, that it was only a matter of days. We took turns holding vigil by his bedside in his little-boy room waiting for the brief intervals he was conscious. Each spoken word, each gentle touch was soaked in, savored and then stored.
One day at about noon he opened his eyes, slowly focused on me and said, “Dad.”
“Yes, Son.” I held his hand tightly.
“Get Mom.”
“Okay Son.” Agony overwhelmed me.
My wife and I knelt on either side of his bed while Henry’s sister sat cross-legged at his head, hands resting on his shoulders.
He looked at his Mother.
“I’m not scared anymore Momma.” She caressed his hand and smiled.
“Oh Henry darling, I’m so glad.” I was humbled by her strength.
His sister whimpered and rubbed his shoulders gently. They smiled at each other for a long while, speaking only with their eyes.
And then he turned to me.
“Dad.”
“Yes, Son.”
He didn’t say anything else but he squeezed my hand three times. I stifled a sob and squeezed back the same. Our secret handshake:
I love you Dad.
I love you too Son.
And then his hand went limp and it was over.
On the altar, my body feels numb, the eulogy damp from my sweaty hands. Suddenly the whole thing seems absurd. My shoulders drop heavy, my head bows deep, and I willingly surrender to the fatigue I have been fighting for weeks.
“This is absurd,” I say with a weary chuckle. My eyes lock with my wife’s and I start to cry.
“No Dad.” It’s my daughter, watching me crumble.
This is when my wife slowly stands. Her heals make a click click sound as she walks toward the coffin and when she reaches it she begins caressing it with long strokes. Her hands go from the bottom of the casket – where Henry’s feet are – to the top – where his head is. My heart aches for her; from the womb to the grave.
“Henry darling,” she says over and over, resting her cheek against the top of the coffin. The next moment, in a deep, long, wretched voice, she screams the word, No. People rush forward but I don’t move.
“Leave her.” My voice is firm and echoes through the church. Everyone stands frozen. I repeat my words, “Leave her,” and take long strides from the altar to my wife’s side. I gesture my daughter to join me. We all three lay our cheeks on the coffin and carress it. My hands move over the smooth mahogany and I’m thinking before the tumor, Henry lying with his head in my lap, my fingers gliding through his blonde curly hair, the feel of his scalp, the blissful look on his innocent face.
The priest watches and after a few moments closes his eyes and lowers his head. He stands up and walks to the lectern. With a series of encouraging nods and a wave of his arm, he motions all of our friends and family to return to their seats and once everyone is settled, he starts. Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art though amongst women and blessed are the fruits of thy womb Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen.
I’m holding on to Henry for dear life. My wife and daughter are doing the same. We stay this way and listen with desperate ears as the priest – and then the whole congregation — recite Hail Mary’s late into the evening.
And then this is over too.
uppsalaanna 