Age 30
Bobby got there early. The deepest recesses of his soul wanted to get in, do what he had to do and get out before anyone else was there. He knew he wouldn't. He'd stay and do his duty. Sitting in the last pew, at the end nearest the door, he hung his head, not really praying, but he did it all the same, out of respect for the priest he knew was watching. After a few moments, he brought his head up and opened his eyes, finding himself staring directly at a crucified Jesus hanging above the pulpit. He gazed into Jesus' eyes, painted ceramic pupils full of physical pain and mortal grief, appropriate for today, but Bobby wondered what a bride and groom would feel about a tormented Jesus presiding over their nuptials.
With a silent sigh of resignation, Bobby stood and walked up the narrow aisle toward the Jesus and his fathers casket that was lain out underneath. He approached the coffin slowly, almost cautiously, as if he didn't see dead bodies every day. Georges' friends had been at the viewing the day before, leaving items of sentiment in the casket. Bobby shook his head, taking stock of the objects that were to accompany his father in the afterlife. Three or four racing forms rested on his chest, a full bottle of whiskey was propped up against the side of the coffin near the left hip. With amazement, Bobby realized he could smell the same perfume that had surrounded his father for years, then he saw the source. A bright red scarf was tucked under his fathers' right hand. He felt a brief flash of indignation, and considered taking the scarf out of the coffin, tossing it into the nearest trashcan. The feeling passed, and Bobby left the scarf where it was, knowing the woman who had brought it must have felt something genuine for his father.
Shuffling feet and whispered voices announced the arrival of the first mourners. Bobby stared at his fathers' face for another moment, a single tear slipping out of his eye. Those watching, who knew the family and their story, and were trying to assess Bobby's movements, would assume it was a tear of sorrow. They wouldn't be completely wrong; it was a tear of sorrow of sorts, for sorrow not felt.
Bobby got there early. The deepest recesses of his soul wanted to get in, do what he had to do and get out before anyone else was there. He knew he wouldn't. He'd stay and do his duty. Sitting in the last pew, at the end nearest the door, he hung his head, not really praying, but he did it all the same, out of respect for the priest he knew was watching. After a few moments, he brought his head up and opened his eyes, finding himself staring directly at a crucified Jesus hanging above the pulpit. He gazed into Jesus' eyes, painted ceramic pupils full of physical pain and mortal grief, appropriate for today, but Bobby wondered what a bride and groom would feel about a tormented Jesus presiding over their nuptials.
With a silent sigh of resignation, Bobby stood and walked up the narrow aisle toward the Jesus and his fathers casket that was lain out underneath. He approached the coffin slowly, almost cautiously, as if he didn't see dead bodies every day. Georges' friends had been at the viewing the day before, leaving items of sentiment in the casket. Bobby shook his head, taking stock of the objects that were to accompany his father in the afterlife. Three or four racing forms rested on his chest, a full bottle of whiskey was propped up against the side of the coffin near the left hip. With amazement, Bobby realized he could smell the same perfume that had surrounded his father for years, then he saw the source. A bright red scarf was tucked under his fathers' right hand. He felt a brief flash of indignation, and considered taking the scarf out of the coffin, tossing it into the nearest trashcan. The feeling passed, and Bobby left the scarf where it was, knowing the woman who had brought it must have felt something genuine for his father.
Shuffling feet and whispered voices announced the arrival of the first mourners. Bobby stared at his fathers' face for another moment, a single tear slipping out of his eye. Those watching, who knew the family and their story, and were trying to assess Bobby's movements, would assume it was a tear of sorrow. They wouldn't be completely wrong; it was a tear of sorrow of sorts, for sorrow not felt.