The Poisoned Bond

Stormy Mourning

The drive to Uncle Henry's funeral was quiet. Rain fell in thick, heavy sheets, leaving a tearful trail down the windows of the limo. The sky looked as if it had been painted with a waterlogged brush; the clouds looked lumpy and heavy – hanging so low they seemed to touch the treetops. I sat apart from everyone watching the droplets race each other down the glass.

It was painfully silent. Joyce sat with her daughter, their eyes locked onto the small handheld mirrors they always kept in their purses, their faces a canvas of practice and precision. Perfectly quivered lips, delicate misting of the eye. Can’t cry too ugly at a funeral where the press will - no doubt - be watching.

Thank the Moon Goddess that Uncle James did not seem to notice – he was lost in his own thoughts. He was just starting out the window. Nathan ignored us all like normal, his eyes darting between the pages of his journal and the windows. His pencil moved in frantic strokes, each line a battle against the silence. A scratching frenzy of the lead against the paper was the only sound in the car, a solitary protest against the oppressive weight of the moment.

Once we arrived at the church no one made eye contact with me. I stood alone in the front row near the minister through the service. Joyce and her kids were at a side pew next to the casket; quietly crying on display without a single hair out of place or a smudge in their perfect makeup. Uncle James was sitting behind the minister – he wasn't looking up - just blankly staring at his hands. Simon was nowhere to be seen; we had said goodbye the other night out on the mountain; so, I was not expecting him to be here anyway.

My eyes scanned the sea of unfamiliar faces, searching for a spark of genuine emotion. I felt like an outsider at my own uncle's funeral, the only one who seemed to be feeling the true weight of his absence besides Uncle James.

The minister's words blended into an uncomfortable white noise as my gaze locked onto the polished wooden casket. It was a crude reminder of the finality of death, of the void Uncle Henry had left in our lives. The silver handles gleamed under the soft glow of the candles, mocking the futility of trying to hold onto what was lost. I felt a tear slide down my cheek. I wiped it away quickly.

After the sermon was finished a few people got up to say some wonderful things about Uncle Henry. My thoughts drifted, how could such a big man fit in such a tiny box? He was a tall, bulky man with a penchant for terrible jokes and an even worse singing voice. He had been the glue that held my fragmented heart together after my father had died. The most vivid memory I had was of Uncle Henry's laugh. It was a deep, resonant sound that filled a room and made everything feel all right.

Then we all rose to follow the warriors who had been chosen to carry Uncle Henry's casket to the family plot. I waited for Joyce and her goblins to pass before stepping out to take Uncle James's hand to walk with him outside. He gave my hand a squeeze and whispered thank you. Today had to be hard for him. First, he lost my father and now he had lost his big brother.

The air was cold with a slight breeze to accompany the light drizzle remaining from the storm. It was almost a lovely day. Standing in the shadow of the ancient church, I found myself straining to remember it amidst the muffled sobs of distant onlookers. The church felt like a stark contrast to the warm, welcoming place it had been during my childhood. The pews were hard and unforgiving, the stained-glass windows seemed to hold secrets behind their colorful facade, and the air was thick with the scent of incense and grief. My hands clutched the small bouquet of white roses I had picked last night, the thorns digging into my palms as I tightened my grip. As the ministers’ final words rang out and silence fell over the group realized I had not heard a single word of his graveside eulogy.

Uncle James and I dropped white roses into the grave. Joyce and her minions just tossed in handfuls of dirt like they couldn't bury him fast enough. The minister blessed the casket one last time before they began lowering him into the grave. "Now go in peace."

As the casket was lowered into the ground, I took a step back, my eyes lingering on the freshly upturned earth. The rain had started up again, a gentle patter against the leaves and the tombstones – a light mist. The cold seeped into my bones, but I didn't shiver. Instead, I felt a strange sense of peace, as if the droplets were whispers from the beyond, telling me that Uncle Henry was okay, that he was watching over all of us.

The crowd began to disperse, retreating to the warmth of their vehicles. They all had somewhere to be, someone to console, a life to return to. But I remained, rooted to the spot. No one approached me and to be honest I didn't want them to. These were Joyce's friends and members of the pack I had never even spoken to. They were here for the spectacle.

Uncle James headed back to the car almost immediately – he looked exhausted. I started picking at my already chipped nail polish as the men buried my uncle. Tt still felt a bit surreal. Taking a deep breath, I approached the minister. "Thank You." He shook my hand but said nothing in return; he just nodded and glanced at Joyce apologetically.

I knew Joyce would be posing for long distance shots of her fake crying over the casket for the media parked up the road, so I slipped over a few rows to leave the other two roses I had in my purse on my parents’ graves. I knelt in the grass to tell them I missed them. I mostly talked to my dad on these visits – my mother died when I was very young, and I do not remember her. But I told dad about Simon being promoted and my final semester of classes coming up. When I finished, I sat here in silence for a few more moments just absorbing the silence until the wet grass began to seep through my dress, making my knees cold.

I stood up and looked around at the virtually empty cemetery realizing that the reason it was so quiet was because they had left me behind. That's fine, I could use a run. I kicked my shoes off and fit them down in my purse before giving the temporary marker on my uncle’s grave one last glance to say goodbye before setting off towards home.

I had not been running long when the rain really started up again and the cold immediately began to seep into my dress. Maybe this was a bad idea. I could have gone back to the church and waited out the weather. I could have called someone to come pick me up. Who would I call? Pepper would have come and picked me up without hesitation; but then Joyce would scold her for leaving the party she was throwing. She called it a wake, but she was running it like the social event of the season.

I was so lost in thought that I almost missed the car that was following me. I heard the crunch of gravel behind me and turned to see a black sedan pulling up, the engine purring gently in the silence of the road to the cemetery. How long had they been back there? What did they want? Why didn’t they just pass me? They pulled in front of me and rolled down the window. My heart stopped.

"Do you need a lift?" a deep voice said from inside.