Maggie's Five ...the first in a LOVE story by Sandra Fitzgerald Read Free Book Online

Burying my
family is about my loss, my anguish. Not about softening the blow
because you’re weak. It’s shit and that’s it.
    I’m sitting in
the first pew second seat in from the carpeted walk way. Luke’s in
the first spot, waiting patiently with his arm secured over my
shoulders, hugging me in the same way he has since the day we met.
He’s been a rock, staying with me for every minute of every hour.
Sleeping on the couch just in case I wake up during the night and
decide to take a walk - like I may have on the first evening I
spent in my empty house alone.
    Jon’s been
great, bunking down in the spare room, disappearing from time to
time without a word, his dull eyes filled with tears. He’s lost his
only sibling, so needs to grieve too. I understand that; we’re all
different and cope in our own way. It’s fine.
    I’m
fine.
    Dad needs his
time to mourn in his own space for the girls and his son-in-law,
after the loss of Mum to cancer. I can only imagine how turbulent
his feelings are. As do the rest of my family, we all need time and
that’s fine. I understand. I’ve wanted to be alone, I still
do.
    Yet, for
whatever reason, Luke’s stayed by my side. I’ve never asked why and
he’s never offered an explanation. It’s not like we sit around
sharing deep and meaningful conversations; we’re lucky to speak at
all.
    Jon and Luke
came home with me after I left the hospital and stayed, that’s it.
There’s no epic story to tell, sorry.
    I can’t say that
I know Luke that well. It’s been a long time since high school and
I certainly don’t understand why I feel so comfortable having him
here. I mean, we all got on well as kids, but I don’t know the
adult Luke, not really.
    I only hope that
they don’t come to their senses and realise that living with a
shell of a person isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be.
    Save for the
Christmas festivities being packed away by persons unknown, and the
pile of bedding that seems to live at the foot of the couch and
doubles as a foot rest, the aesthetics of the house is back to
normal. Normal kitchen, normal bathrooms, normal living room. Empty
bedrooms.
    In front of me,
Brendan’s resting on the diagonal to my right; an eight by ten
centimetre photo of him from our wedding day resting in the centre
of his cof- coff- encasement. The girls are side by side, also on
the diagonal, resting to my left. Their painted homes are polished
to sparkling and draped in colourful flowers to match the fabric
they rest in, though only a few are privy to this because I’ve
opted for a closed service. Photos taken hours before the accident
rest in the centre of their floral displays, the girls’ large
smiles filled with holiday joy exploding off the canvas. The
beautiful copies are addictive to the eye and excruciating to look
at.
    The pews in the
church fill with murmuring guests, family and friends wishing to
pay their respects, say their last goodbyes. My tangled fingers
swell start to tingle and I need to open and close them to move the
fluid.
    Luke tightens
his hold on me as I adjust my seat and I’m grateful to feel the
warmth radiating from him, to help ease the chill creeping in my
bones while we wait in silence, inhaling the stuffy heat of the
stagnant summer afternoon.
    At this point,
I’m glad I put my foot down and insisted with breaking with
tradition, to hold the wake prior to the burial. The thought of
having so many witnesses to my family’s final act is overpowering
and I just can’t. I need to do this as privately as
possible.
    The Priest takes
his place between my deceased family as discussed yesterday. He
commences his speech on life and love, of living to the fullest, of
endings that come too soon and I tell myself that I’m calm, I’m
fine.
    I focus on
taking in a breath, holding it for three seconds, one for each
beloved member before me, and then release it. Inhale and hold for
three seconds, then release. Again and again I repeat this