Playing on Yggdrasil

"No Father wants to lose a child," the preacher said. "In First Peter, we hear the faithful told to be patient as God does not want anyone to be lost." Too late, Patrick thought. He tried to look away from the box that held all that was left of Ingrid. Justine held his hand and leaned her head on his arm. He was all that Justine had now. He needed to be strong for her. He hadn't been strong enough for Ingrid and now she was gone. Lost, in spite of what Pastor Daniel was saying. There was a rustle as the people in the church all stood and Patrick saw the funeral director waiting for him and his daughter to lead everyone out of the church. At the cemetery, they put the obscenely small box of his wife's ashes in the hole. He threw a handful of dirt in after it and the tears pricked at his eyes. He forced them back with an iron will. He was not going to cry in front of his daughter. "Is Mommy in that box?" Justine asked looking at him with her blue eyes. "No." Patrick had to stop and take a deep breath. "No, Justine, that's just what is left of her. She's out there somewhere." "Is she lost? Can we help her come home?" "She isn't lost. Nothing we really love is ever lost." Patrick had to take another breath and push back the tears. He could feel the weakness trying to claw its way out. He wanted to howl and tear his clothes. "She can't come home," Patrick said, "She's with God." He felt a bitter acid in his stomach at the G word. It was a cop-out, but Ingrid had given an ironclad faith in the big guy to Justine. He wondered what he really believed. All he knew was the jagged hole in his life no amount of words could ever to fill. "Say hi to God for me, Mommy." Justine threw some dirt into the hole, then brushed her hands off. "I'm going to talk to Molly, OK Dad?" "OK," Patrick said. He watched her run off. Her blond hair streamed out behind her. He wanted to call her back and hold on to her and make sure that she was safe. Instead he looked back at the hole. "You can fill it in now," he told the funeral director. She just nodded and a man in overalls quietly shovelled the dirt into the grave. It didn't take long. Patrick wanted to let the tears flow, but the traitorous weakness mocked him by keeping his eyes as dry as the dirt covering his wife and lover's grave. It should be raining. The heavens should have opened and the whole world should be deluged. Let the clouds weep the tears that he couldn't. He heard the squeals of Justine and Molly playing. He envied them at the same time as he felt bereft of company. "If you need anything, just call." The minister handed him yet another card. Patrick was sure he had twenty of them lying around the house. "Give one to Justine," he said. Then he thought how ungracious he sounded. "Thanks for all your help." "I heard what you told Justine," Reverend Daniel said, "about nothing loved ever being lost. Remember that." He patted Patrick's shoulder and ambled off toward Justine. Patrick watched him kneel in the grass to talk to her. She took the card and ran arrow straight back to Patrick. "Can we go home?" she asked. "Sure thing, Justine." They walked back to the limousine he'd rented, not certain of his ability to drive, not wanting to put anyone else at risk. The driver was leaning against the door waiting for them. He didn't say anything, but opened the door for Justine and closed it behind Patrick. The ride home was lost in the fog of grief that threatened to overwhelm Patrick. Justine sat beside him and chattered about the service and the other people who were there. The fog followed him into the house. He couldn't remember talking to people, though he was sure he must have said something in response to their endless words of sorrow and support. "Justine wanted spaghetti," Patrick's sister was saying to him. "So I made her some. It's ready if you would like some." Patrick thought of the awful void inside him. No amount of spaghetti would ever fill it. "Sure, thanks." He was aware that she was shepherding the last of the people out the door before she went out herself. He followed the garlic and tomato smell to the kitchen as if he could get lost in his own house. Yet he felt lost. "Hi, Daddy," Justine said, "you need to eat something." She was echoing what she had heard every other woman in the house tell him. She pulled him into a chair and climbed into his lap. She whispered in his ear, as if her words were the secret of the universe. "I know Mommy's with God, but I'm still sad. The minister said it was OK to cry. Is it?" Patrick looked into his daughter's eyes and saw the same dry pain that he knew was in his. "Yes," he said, "it's OK to cry." The floodgates opened and he saw her tears as he felt his. Then she clung to him with all the strength of her eight-year-old arms. He felt her wet face against his and their tears and their grief and their love mixed. "I'll always be there for you." Patrick whispered into the blond hair. "Always."