Memoir -- Installment Two

"Where is she, where is she?"

Hurriedly, the palm-sized dress shoes carried me to the giant maple doors. Laden with round, iron handles and ornate dips and curves, it truly was worth its price. Struggling, my entire body opposing the weight of this wooden gate, it began to move, permitting me inside the building. It was nothing like my home, or any of the places I was used to. There was an eerie, hollow presence about the corridors, itching between marble pillars and tiled floors. Fine,  partially used candles perch themselves idly on the  white plaster walls, waiting to be relit, as the clack-clack-clacking of rubber soles danced up and down the bright hallways. To my left, sewn, decorated couches bide company to a cement mantle -- dead, too, like the candles; to my front, a long, marble floor, still unsure if it is to use white or black rhombuses, lit only by the brass-supported chandeliers dangling above. Where the hallway led, I'm still unsure; perhaps some more rooms -- other gatherings.

"Are you coming?" echoed a voice from behind me. It was that of my dad, with a slight break in his tone.

"Yeah, Dad!" I shouted, trotting over to our family's convoy.

We stood behind a long line of black ties and white dress shoes for what seemed like hours. Soft whispers and the occasional weeping encompassed the room, disappearing among groups of two or three people near the front of the line, huddled into tiny circles, talking casually. When we finally got to the front of the line, I wasn't tall enough to see over the case, so my dad hoisted my into his arms. Looking down, I got a clear shot of her: she lay on her back, hands together, fingers intertwined, donning a soft yellow/baby blue dress. Her eyes were closed, yet she did not seem to breathe. She was infamous for having larger cheeks, but I wasn't old enough to tell.

"Is she eating a muffin?" I ask to my dad who, with glassy eyes, finally smiles and forces out a 'no'. She was at peace with closure, pristine in her presence of that world. Unmarked. Healthy. Untouched.

Some eight or nine years later I'd remind myself to pray for her every night. It's ironic: I'd completely forgotten until now, but it doesn't bother me, because I've reassured myself that death is bittersweet: "Bitter in the death, sweet in the salvation." How truer could it be?


"I told him I would never lose faith in him. And I promised myself I never would" (Walls 79).