Mourningreed

It couldn’t be said he wasn’t cold yet. Indeed, the morgue kept him chilled, but draped in colorful Indian quilts, a vibrant dichotomy that belied the stillness of him. My breath shuttered. We had shared a milkshake just the evening before. We both knew his journey was coming to a close. But you’re never prepared. My soul leaked, watering my vision. I took two steps and kissed him one last time on the forehead. Godspeed thy journey, father. The hardest part here is over.

The flowers came a day later, a stunning explosion of cut life: imposing white lilies and subtle peach roses and saucer-sized nosy white mums, interlaced with delicate fern fronds and royal purple statices. The house alit with the fragrance of life. The card read, “To my darling daughter. I love you. Dad.” The universe tilted beneath me.

I look at the text again, then glance at the flowers. “What’s the lawyer’s name?” From brother. Funeral is tomorrow, not five days since departure. It is a military funeral, full honors, flyovers. A tribute to an extraordinary and honorable life. I do not respond. Please let’s just get through the funeral.

As quickly as they came, they left. We are not surprised. Busy lives. Except father and I. Father, because that is what age does. Myself, because that is what filial duty does.

The lilies are dusting the counter with pollen and petals. The roses are slightly bowing. The text inquires about the will. It is from sister.