This eulogy is not a goodbye. It is a triumph. My father’s final words ring like the gloat of a general over their vanquished enemy. ‘I loved you.’ He does not move to see his mother lying in eternal rest. He does not even turn his head to steal one final glimpse of her face. Instead, my father stands there, staring out above the crowd. An actor pausing dramatically before he exits the stage. The muffled sobs and respectful silence are a standing ovation for his finest performance. ***
I let the breeze numb my nerves as I stand before the open grave. The mournful cast of strangers is now rearranged in a wide circle to watch the climax of the show. The final litany of praise and remembrance. My mother and I are positioned with the masses. Our final view of my grandmother a snapshot too blurry to keep. Coats wave goodbye in the wind. The unspoken dirge of the crowd as we watch the curtains fall. Those who seek a final tribute claim their right to a rose of golden sunlight. Each flower taken from a basket and cast into the grave. I feel my hand pulled toward the yellow roses as my mother moves forward. A final bouquet of gratitude for the woman who helped her. But a single step is all my mother takes. My father’s shadow looms in unspoken ownership over the last bundle of flowers.
My mother releases a guarded breath, her goodbye to my grandmother escaping as wisps of steam. She turns us around, and we begin to leave. It’s only with her face cast away from my father that the tears begin to flow. She makes no noise as she weeps, but I can feel her quivering. I know she wants to do more, to pay the proper respect the leading lady deserves. Still, my mother is not yet ready to face her tormentor.
I don’t cry, not at first. Instead, I squeeze my mother’s hand tight, promising to return. I head back towards the grave. With each step, my stomach twists against me, realisation growing within of where I’m going. My mind is two steps behind, nightmares screeching inside my head like warped cassettes replaying old fears. But neither of them can settle my defiant heart. When I stop, I find myself before my father. For a long moment, we stare at each other, wordless and breathless. His peppery complexion seems alien. His face hollow like a dead tree. Even his eyes, though full of contempt, appear dim and lost. Before me is not some dark memory but rather a worn statue of a man. As I bend down to collect the last of the flowers from the basket, my father shifts uncomfortably. Despite the remaining crowd, he unleashes a torrent laying claim to my insolence. How dare I take his flowers. How dare I disrespect him. How dare I walk away. Though I have rehearsed this moment of defiance in my head thousands of times and practiced every verse I want to say, I never acknowledge my father’s words. I approach the closed coffin. Handfuls of dirt and yellow petals litter its polished surface. The final gifts of the parting crowd. Looking up, I find my mother staring at me with shock and awe. The warmth of my tears running down my face. I touch the heads of the roses to my lips. Within their bloom, the farewell of my grandmother’s most thankful admirers. I whisper the final words we want to say and let the flowers fall into the earth. ‘We love you.’
23
