This afternoon, I walked to a funeral parlour, only half a kilometre from the rectory. I went there, first, to take advantage of the sun, which is becoming a rarity this January and I felt that a bit of fresh air won't hurt either. Second, I wish to visit the remains of Monique, a nice middle aged mother who died of cancer just a few days ago. She is well-loved by her family and her community, and I often see her during the Mass, always smiling at the pews. She's a member of our little association and I have already been to her house a few times, and have met her family.
Peeking at the glass door I hesitated a bit at the front steps the funeral parlor as I saw no one inside. I entered anyway and wished aloud that someone is there to tell me where would I find Monique's wake. A paper carefully taped on a door replied mutely of my query. I entered and I was surprised at the dimness of the room. I must make this clear: the room wasn't dark, it is just that it didn't have the artificial funeral candelabras that we often use at home. The furnishings were utilitarian but tasteful, chaises on corners, a coffee table book, a table lamp, a reproduction of still-life painting on the wall. As I surveyed the room and went to discover what's behind the divider that stood at the middle of the room, I soon realised that it's not only the candelabras that are missing.
Before me was a bed, and there lies Monique, wearing, not a formal dress, but a cream-colored thermal pull-over, covered with a dark blue quilt until her chest, her two white hands resting over her stomach. There was no coffin at all. It struck me as strange but then again, the whole concept of it seems to stress to all who visits her that she was just, in fact, sleeping. As I sat down at a bench nearby, I looked at her and tried to recall of my memories of her. One thing for sure, her sweet smile, even at death, hasn't left her.
I then tried not to stare as I felt it not right to stare at a lady at whatever state she is. Also, I began to hallucinate and imagined seeing the tell-tale rise and fall of her chest, breathing. I felt obliged too to stay silent in my prayers so as not to disturb her "sleep." So I just looked around this corner which is just as dim as the rest of the room and it felt companionably quiet. Near her was a receptacle for holy water and an unlighted candle. On the floor is a slab of stylised cut marble bearing the inscription, Annabelle Soeur. Who is Annabelle Soeur? Later, I realised that the writing actually said, A Ma Belle-Soeur, "to my sister-in-law."
While my eyes were rarely on her and I barely made a sound, I didn't dread the presence of Monique's mortal remains. I guess I am no longer afraid of the dead people. In fact, in the dimness of the place, I began recalling the memories of my own beloved dead. My mother, my father, my sister... I don't know but that thought ached a lot like a nostalgic splinter in my eye and next thing I knew, I was weeping.
I then asked Monique, in French, that if she sees my mom, my dad and my sister, to please, please tell them I said Hi, and that I love them and I miss them very much. And that I am doing well although it would help alot if they would always pray for me. My hallucination led me to believe that she smiled the more after that. Then I recited a decade of the rosary, stood up, wiped the tear-stains away from my face, bid Monique my adieu, went to the register to sign my name and then left.
Paperbacks
I am lost in this chapter
where the protagonist hid
among indecipherable words and I fear
that I don't care anymore.
My own story blurred at edges
and my world is filled with
the same faceless words that hurt
my eyes. I searched
for the solace of a sound,
familiar, flowing, unstudied,
to break out somewhere between
the lines. Is there an end?
Yes, of course, but reading it
would mean death to a friend.
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