Categories > Original > Drama
Visitation
0 reviewsJust by looking, I could tell that those arms would never uncross themselves and hug her daughter again, that those eyes would look upon anyone else ever again. She was dead.
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Visitation
I sit there on the church bench, fumbling with the book in my hands. As I stroke the leathery cover with my thumb, I can feel the embossed words "Holy Bible". I've never been a very religious person, but I always find myself flipping through its pages whenever I happen to find one. I skim through Genesis as I wait for time to pass.
The only reason I'm in a church right now is that there is a visitation today. That time a day or two before someone's funeral, in which relatives and friends of that person can come in, see the body, and talk among each other.
Who is this visitation for? Is it a relative of mine? Is it a close friend of mine? Or maybe just an acquaintance?
The answer to these questions is no. In all honesty, I do not recall ever meeting this person face-to-face. All I know is that she is the mother of a girl that used visit my aunt's house when I was a kid, and I only knew that because my mother told me so. Even the face of the girl I used to play with is forgotten. I know that she's here somewhere in this room, but I wouldn't be able to point her out. It's been quite a few years since the last time I've seen her. She must have changed a lot.
I'm sitting there on the long church bench. My niece is sitting there next to me silently. The coffin and the body are sitting at the front of the room.
My niece tugs at my shoulder and asks me quietly, "Do you want to go see her?" Of course she's referring to the body in the coffin. I know my niece well enough to understand that she really means "Can you go with me to see her?" since she's too afraid to go by herself.
I dryly reply, "Sure," and we both walk down the isle towards the coffin. A group of adults are standing at the foot of the coffin. Their conversation is interrupted only momentarily by our presence. We are standing silently at the side of the half-open coffin, looking at what was inside.
It was a body. The body of a woman dressed in the last clothes she would ever wear. Looking at her face didn't strike up any particular emotions. I still couldn't remember that face no matter how hard I tried, but there was something else, something unnatural about the body.
Just by looking, I could tell that those arms would never uncross themselves and hug her daughter again, that those eyes would look upon anyone else ever again. She was dead.
I take a moment to look around the large room. The adults are scattered about the room in random groups, talking and laughing amongst themselves. Times like these used to confuse me.
I think back a few years ago to my uncle's visitation. I sat alone at the back of the room. It was the same situation then as it is now: Adults scattered about the room engaged in light conversation, the body in the coffin up front.
Back then, I asked my mother, "How could people talk and laugh so casually when my uncle's dead body is just sitting there?"
My mother told me that visitation was a time for people to come together and remember the happy memories. My mother told me that the funeral was the proper place to mourn.
Sure enough, all the adults who were laughing and talking so cheerfully the day before were crying hysterically at the funeral the next day. Unfortunately, I won't be able to see the result of this visitation and attend tomorrow's funeral.
It made me wonder: Where people so cold as to cry their salt-less tears only when convenient, or do they hide their natural tears behind faux smiles?
As I stand there looking down into the coffin, I can feel moist drops land on the back of my hands. For some reason, I'm crying.
Author's Notes: Well, after a short break, here's another story. This time it's based on a true story. I'm not too sure about the ending, though. I appreciate all comments and critiques! Thank you!
I sit there on the church bench, fumbling with the book in my hands. As I stroke the leathery cover with my thumb, I can feel the embossed words "Holy Bible". I've never been a very religious person, but I always find myself flipping through its pages whenever I happen to find one. I skim through Genesis as I wait for time to pass.
The only reason I'm in a church right now is that there is a visitation today. That time a day or two before someone's funeral, in which relatives and friends of that person can come in, see the body, and talk among each other.
Who is this visitation for? Is it a relative of mine? Is it a close friend of mine? Or maybe just an acquaintance?
The answer to these questions is no. In all honesty, I do not recall ever meeting this person face-to-face. All I know is that she is the mother of a girl that used visit my aunt's house when I was a kid, and I only knew that because my mother told me so. Even the face of the girl I used to play with is forgotten. I know that she's here somewhere in this room, but I wouldn't be able to point her out. It's been quite a few years since the last time I've seen her. She must have changed a lot.
I'm sitting there on the long church bench. My niece is sitting there next to me silently. The coffin and the body are sitting at the front of the room.
My niece tugs at my shoulder and asks me quietly, "Do you want to go see her?" Of course she's referring to the body in the coffin. I know my niece well enough to understand that she really means "Can you go with me to see her?" since she's too afraid to go by herself.
I dryly reply, "Sure," and we both walk down the isle towards the coffin. A group of adults are standing at the foot of the coffin. Their conversation is interrupted only momentarily by our presence. We are standing silently at the side of the half-open coffin, looking at what was inside.
It was a body. The body of a woman dressed in the last clothes she would ever wear. Looking at her face didn't strike up any particular emotions. I still couldn't remember that face no matter how hard I tried, but there was something else, something unnatural about the body.
Just by looking, I could tell that those arms would never uncross themselves and hug her daughter again, that those eyes would look upon anyone else ever again. She was dead.
I take a moment to look around the large room. The adults are scattered about the room in random groups, talking and laughing amongst themselves. Times like these used to confuse me.
I think back a few years ago to my uncle's visitation. I sat alone at the back of the room. It was the same situation then as it is now: Adults scattered about the room engaged in light conversation, the body in the coffin up front.
Back then, I asked my mother, "How could people talk and laugh so casually when my uncle's dead body is just sitting there?"
My mother told me that visitation was a time for people to come together and remember the happy memories. My mother told me that the funeral was the proper place to mourn.
Sure enough, all the adults who were laughing and talking so cheerfully the day before were crying hysterically at the funeral the next day. Unfortunately, I won't be able to see the result of this visitation and attend tomorrow's funeral.
It made me wonder: Where people so cold as to cry their salt-less tears only when convenient, or do they hide their natural tears behind faux smiles?
As I stand there looking down into the coffin, I can feel moist drops land on the back of my hands. For some reason, I'm crying.
Author's Notes: Well, after a short break, here's another story. This time it's based on a true story. I'm not too sure about the ending, though. I appreciate all comments and critiques! Thank you!
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