The air was still. There was no breeze and hardly a sound. People spoke in hushed tones. I took my cues from those around me and from the silent reminder of my mother’s face as she cast a look my way, checking up on me. I had been told.
“Keep quiet,” Mom had said, making sure her eyes connected with mine. “And, no running. Hold my hand, Sweetie.”
I wondered what it was like—death. I tried to think about it, but couldn’t. I tried harder. Nothing.
Will it be like the foal? I wondered, fear creeping up my bare arms, making the hairs stand on end. I tugged my sweater on, glad that mom had insisted I carry it.
Only I knew about the foal. Only I had seen—crouched down—peeking above a straw bale, as she gave birth. Then, nothing. My heart raced while she pawed the motionless foal and I stared in disbelief. I ran to the house, to my room, and buried my face in my pillow to muffle the sounds. I thought I was responsible. The foal was discovered hours later, but I never let on.
My stomach felt funny, empty and sort of queasy. We were going to have lunch afterwards. Lunch. That struck me as funny—oddfunny—like a party, but not really. I was old enough, at 12, to know this was not a party. No balloons. No games. Definitely not fun.
Will people smile? I wondered, stealing a look at the faces around me. There were a few smiles, not big ones and no easy laughter. Just uneasy small-talk about the weather, about the forecast, about crops—talk that was softer than normal. And, no one said his name. No one talked about why we were there, gathered outside that weathered white church.
It was time. I knew because people were moving slowly toward the doors. My stomach tightened and my hand did, too, as Mom looked down sympathetically. I gripped her hand tightly, my fingers finding comfort in her warmth.
Uncle Bill had laughed easily and often, and worked hard—as hard as my step-father. They were farmers, and friends, as well as family.
Our visits to their ranch beyond the Big Muddy Valley were among my favourite memories. There was always a supper and lots of laughter around the table. And cards followed supper, and more laughter.
But—not now. I would never hear him laugh again. I thought I should feel worse, but no tears came.
We moved inside and everyone became quieter still. Hushed voices silenced and people looked straight ahead as they slid into place on the polished pews.
I thought the silence would deafen me.
Then he appeared—the suited stranger, smiling at the front—surprising us, like a jack-in-a-box. He looked cheerful. Did someone forget to tell him my Uncle died? I wondered.
Then he deposited a black book on the pulpit, looked at us for what seemed too long and welcomed us.
Maybe this won’t be so bad, I thought. It was like he had given us permission to smile a little—and to breathe. I was breathing again.
“Please open your hymnals to number 324,” he instructed. Then, with a wave of his arm, he motioned for us to stand. We stood, waiting.
I heard sniffling. Someone was crying. It reminded me of last summer’s campfire song, “Someone’s crying Lord, Kum ba ya—”
“An-a-one, an-a-two, an-a-one, two, three, four,” he bellowed rhythmically, his voice too loud and too cheerful, slowing as he sang “Abide with me …” Some were singing. I wasn’t. Why wasn’t he sad? I wondered.
I’ll never forget that moment or that jack-in-the-box minister who seemed so out of place with the sadness, the quietness, the stillness.
I stared at the long smooth box that held my Uncle and wondered how he was doing in there, if he had been surprised, as well and was chuckling at the minister’s “An-a-one, an-a-two, an-a-one, two, three, four.”
I pictured him smiling.
My stomach quit hurting. Seemed everyone was singing now. Faces looked less drawn, like a weight had been lifted.
We tucked my Uncle in, into the soft earth where he would sleep forever. We said our goodbyes, each in our own way, and we drove to the hall where we ate crust-less sandwiches, pickles and sweet pastries. Folks were chatting easily, smiling more than before, some even laughing softly. They traded memories about Uncle Bill, recalling good times like they were just yesterday.
Uncle Bill would have liked the good things being said about him. He enjoyed good food and good company.
It felt right—comforting—as if he were right there with us. And, as I grew, I realized that he really was right there with us. He was in our hearts. And, he was in our laughter and in our memories. I grew to realize that that’s where the people we loved, lived, after they were gone.
They never really leave us.