I keep having the same bad dream…
A quaint town, full of people I have never seen or heard, walk out of a church. Dressed in white. And, although no one is crying and there is no casket, I somehow know it is a funeral. It’s in the way the men have parted their hair that morning and the way the women hang on to their daughters’ wrists. Partly because they are in the presence of a future they warn their daughters about before they head out on a Friday night. Or as they glance at “missing” posters at the supermarket. They grasp on to the wrists of their kin, their tiny shoulders, their innocence. And partly because, contrary to popular belief, those mothers need to hang on to something different than they did before that morning. No one is wiping tears from their faces, yet they carry their somberness in their fingertips.
And I am not watching the pastor, or the people anymore. I am now looking for two things: my own mother, and the damn casket. But I can’t. Because I am not really there. I am watching this scene unfold from outside the church and I can’t help but feel confused. And alone. And full of questions in this town I seem to still not know anything about. But also, grateful that at least I am looking for something. Even if it’s questions I’m not sure I want the answer to.
They never carry a casket outside the church. They never release balloons in the sky.
And my mother is never a face in the crowd.
Recently, I’ve come to one conclusion: I am just a visitor in this town.
We all are. In the meantime, I’ll look for other things to watch that is not The Funeral.