The End

The limousine pulls up to a small, unassuming building. Inhaling, I hold my breath long enough to feel ridiculous in my tortoise-shell sunglasses and perfectly coiffed tresses. Exhaling, I step out and linger on the sidewalk. The city seems different today. There's a weight in the air I didn't feel before and a quiet that disturbs me. My chest aches and I pinch the ornate silver charm hanging from my neck between my fingers. A familiar hand clasps mine. I look down and my son smiles up at me. I give our hands a gentle shake and say, "are you ready?" We enter and an unsettling silence welcomes us. A sterile aroma mixed with faint florals tickles my nose. I realize that I'm alone, my son distracted, unaware of the feelings taking over me. I stare straight ahead at a dim room, an audience of empty chairs lined up in perfect rows. My breath quickens and I can almost hear the faint thump of my heart, a lump I've become all too familiar with forms in my throat. I hesitate, trying to muster up the courage to enter the room. I concentrate on anything other than the sight before me; the carpet collapsing under my weight with each step. A dilapidated love seat is positioned at the head of the arranged seats, daring me to sit and stare at the morbid curiosity. A few feet ahead I spot a pew cushion and despite my internal protest, decide to kneel before the open, wooden box. I recognize the black lace dress before me. The last time I saw it, it draped the body of a woman who had become unfamiliar to me, paper thin skin and jutting bones telling the story of the horrors she had faced. The irony is not lost on me when I realize we had been in a room, not unlike this one the last time she wore it. I wheeled her around the room, her weakness on display for everyone to see. I dared myself to feel the unfamiliar hand before me, a rosary entwined between waxed fingers, red polished nails feeling inappropriate in this setting. The frozen touch shocks me and for a moment I am suspended in disbelief. Is this really happening? My hands are no longer a part of me as they explore the figure laid out on a white satin sheet. My fingertips brush the sleeve of her dress, stopping only when the familiar crinkle of plastic awakes me from my stupor. Without thinking I gather the excess fabric covering her frail and frozen arm to confront this intruder. "Why is she covered in plastic? Why would they do that to her?" My voice is unfamiliar to me, deep and hysterical, breaking the sacred moment. My skin prickles and my eyes sting, betraying my strength. The room spins and I can't breathe. I do the unthinkable and stare at this stranger in the face, jaw sewn shut, cotton peeking through her nose. For a moment, I am lucid, noticing she's wearing makeup and I reminisce to a time when she was smiling and oh so beautiful. My body heaves and I no longer care if I'm making a scene. I refuse to believe this is real. It's a dream. It has to be. A gentle arm drapes my shoulder, attempting to calm the storm brewing inside of me. "Come. It's okay. Sit down." I let myself be led to the oversized couch, and sink into the seat. It sags beneath me with the weight of my grief. My mother is dead. She is lying in front of me, and I didn't say goodbye.