next to the humble Christmas tree. The smell of pine races up my nose as mourner after mourner passes by, offering me words of comfort I can’t even hear. It all devolves into some indiscernible hum.
I barely understand when the paramedics tell me that it was a massive coronary, and that she likely went quickly. I think that’s supposed to make me feel better, but it doesn’t. This isn’t the way it’s supposed to go. This isn’t the plan. This can’t be real. Maybe I’m having a weird nightmare. I pray each and every second that Aunt Susan will be nudging me awake, for the holiday we were supposed to have. The kind of holiday we always had.
Instead the nightmare drags painfully on. She stays in that room until the coroner comes, which is mercifully within an hour. I stand on the stoop with other people I haven’t the presence of mind to identify. We all huddle together, fending off the cold and the sorrow as the EMT’s roll the gurney from the house. I hear weeping behind me as someone realizes she’s covered head to toe, as if it is some revelation that she is really gone.
Father Genovese arrives to console me. We sit together in the living room. Someone has prepared hot buttered rum, which I cradle within my hands. I don’t speak much. I may shake my head or nod, but I hear nothing. Words jumble together like perfect nonsense.
Nothing makes sense to me now. Just yesterday… just hours ago … I had a plan. I had a dream. I had a family . Now I am alone. More alone than I have ever been.
As alone as I feel, it doesn’t take long for people to fill the tiny brownstone to overflowing. Everyone from the neighborhood stops to pay their respects. There’s more food than anyone wants to eat. There are stories, many stories, of Susan and her giant heart. I hear laughter mingle with the sobs as everyone reminisces on the amazing woman who had somehow just left the planet.
Already the world seems smaller without her.
I let the world spin on without me. I watch everyone bustle around the small house as if they are all in fast forward. The hands on the grandfather clock keep spinning, even though my heart stopped beating hours ago. I sit in that chair, staring into the Christmas tree that someone had finally turned on. “She loved Christmas,” I hear someone say.
Their use of past tense punctures my heart.
They are right. She loved Christmas. She loved the hope of it. “Every day of your life should feel like Christmas morning,” she would say.
Tears keep pooling in my eyes. I have no shame as I let them fall. Nothing matters anymore.
It is after six o’clock in the evening before I find the presence of mind to call Lori. But I figure she deserves to have a nice holiday with her family. I can’t just call her and drop this kind of bombshell. Susan would never forgive me.
In the blink of an eye it is nine o’clock, when everyone begins their migration to the church. They need the comfort of those four walls now more than ever. Mrs. D’onofrio sits on the sofa next to me. “You should go. It will make you feel better. Perhaps you could sing in her honor,” she offers but I shake my head.
I’m not sure I can ever sing again. And I know I’ll never sing that song again. I can’t, not without her to hear me.
“Then I can stay,” she says. Again I shake my head.
As nice as everyone has been, I need to be alone. I’m exhausted from their constant attention, as well-meaning as it is. I need to rip off every scab by myself, in private.
Mrs. D’onofrio is not convinced. She purses her lips as she stares at me. I notice how her eyes are bloodshot and her nose is red. This has been a hard day for her too. I struggle to smile as I touch her hand. “Thank you for everything,” I tell her. I will never forget that she was there for me on my most difficult day.
She leans forward and cups my face with her hand. It reminds me so much of Aunt Susan that it rips fresh tears from my eyes. “I’m always
I barely understand when the paramedics tell me that it was a massive coronary, and that she likely went quickly. I think that’s supposed to make me feel better, but it doesn’t. This isn’t the way it’s supposed to go. This isn’t the plan. This can’t be real. Maybe I’m having a weird nightmare. I pray each and every second that Aunt Susan will be nudging me awake, for the holiday we were supposed to have. The kind of holiday we always had.
Instead the nightmare drags painfully on. She stays in that room until the coroner comes, which is mercifully within an hour. I stand on the stoop with other people I haven’t the presence of mind to identify. We all huddle together, fending off the cold and the sorrow as the EMT’s roll the gurney from the house. I hear weeping behind me as someone realizes she’s covered head to toe, as if it is some revelation that she is really gone.
Father Genovese arrives to console me. We sit together in the living room. Someone has prepared hot buttered rum, which I cradle within my hands. I don’t speak much. I may shake my head or nod, but I hear nothing. Words jumble together like perfect nonsense.
Nothing makes sense to me now. Just yesterday… just hours ago … I had a plan. I had a dream. I had a family . Now I am alone. More alone than I have ever been.
As alone as I feel, it doesn’t take long for people to fill the tiny brownstone to overflowing. Everyone from the neighborhood stops to pay their respects. There’s more food than anyone wants to eat. There are stories, many stories, of Susan and her giant heart. I hear laughter mingle with the sobs as everyone reminisces on the amazing woman who had somehow just left the planet.
Already the world seems smaller without her.
I let the world spin on without me. I watch everyone bustle around the small house as if they are all in fast forward. The hands on the grandfather clock keep spinning, even though my heart stopped beating hours ago. I sit in that chair, staring into the Christmas tree that someone had finally turned on. “She loved Christmas,” I hear someone say.
Their use of past tense punctures my heart.
They are right. She loved Christmas. She loved the hope of it. “Every day of your life should feel like Christmas morning,” she would say.
Tears keep pooling in my eyes. I have no shame as I let them fall. Nothing matters anymore.
It is after six o’clock in the evening before I find the presence of mind to call Lori. But I figure she deserves to have a nice holiday with her family. I can’t just call her and drop this kind of bombshell. Susan would never forgive me.
In the blink of an eye it is nine o’clock, when everyone begins their migration to the church. They need the comfort of those four walls now more than ever. Mrs. D’onofrio sits on the sofa next to me. “You should go. It will make you feel better. Perhaps you could sing in her honor,” she offers but I shake my head.
I’m not sure I can ever sing again. And I know I’ll never sing that song again. I can’t, not without her to hear me.
“Then I can stay,” she says. Again I shake my head.
As nice as everyone has been, I need to be alone. I’m exhausted from their constant attention, as well-meaning as it is. I need to rip off every scab by myself, in private.
Mrs. D’onofrio is not convinced. She purses her lips as she stares at me. I notice how her eyes are bloodshot and her nose is red. This has been a hard day for her too. I struggle to smile as I touch her hand. “Thank you for everything,” I tell her. I will never forget that she was there for me on my most difficult day.
She leans forward and cups my face with her hand. It reminds me so much of Aunt Susan that it rips fresh tears from my eyes. “I’m always
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