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BEAUTIFUL DAY FOR A FUNERAL
By
John A. Vara

Why is it that babies are buried along the curbs at cemeteries? This warm beautiful day is like you. You came to me on a hot July day and you left me on another hot summer day. Your bright summer smile with your beautiful black eyes and skin darkened like a ripe peach always brighten my days. Look I brought you red, white and blue balloons to celebrate the 4^th of July and your birthday. I know I told you a little fib that everybody celebrates your birthday on the 4^th, but I have to tell you it’s our nation’s birthday too. Please ask God to forgive me for fibbing. I love you.

Remember when we traveled to all the California Missions and you marveled at the adobe walls and the red tile roofs. "How did they get here, Dad?" "Why do we have to see all of them?" "Couldn’t we just go see a couple." Son, soon you’ll start kindergarten and you must have knowledge of your California ancestors to share your summer time with friends and teachers. Running through the missions your black eyes scanning every statue, Jesus on the cross, all the Indian artworks. I could see your mind working, storing everything for future use. It seems that summer days are the most important in my memory.

Son, I hope you enjoy the mortarboard and diploma cast on your bronze grave marker. I want visitors to know how smart you are. You would have been an excellent graduate. The priest is saying thoughtful words and readings from the Bible that he long ago memorized. Concentrating and internalizing his inspiring sermon is impossible; all I see is your grave and shadows milling about. My heart hurts, I feel faint, I can’t catch my breath. A beige suited woman grabs my arm and waist steadying me. Everyone else is wearing dark clothes. Finally the burdening burial ceremony is finished. The priest leads the condolence procession of the ill at ease; loved ones and friends file by and pay their last respects. My teary eyes searched for the woman to thank her for her kindness but she was gone.

Inviting all the grieving to my home for food and drink is good therapy for them, I’d rather be alone. What better way for a catholic family to overcome grief, with food and good drink. Crying and laughing about our shared tragedy, filling ourselves with drink the day and night seemed to go quicker. In a drunken stupor I questioned everyone who would listen about the woman in the beige suit. Nobody knew her. Why was she at my son’s funeral? Who was she? What did she want? Quick look everybody, through the window, the woman’s on the lawn. Stumbling through the front door and down the stairs I couldn’t catch her, she was gone. "It’s late," they said "get some rest, it’s been a rough day." No, no my son loves the sun. It’s a beautiful day. Please don’t go.

The early sun’s bright rays force my eyes open. I struggle to close the blinds and ease my pain. The smell of brewing coffee leads me to the kitchen. An angel was kind enough to set the brewer on automatic. The best stuff for a hangover. What’s this, even during mourning the mail must go through. Junk mail, bills, bills, a police report! 

"Dear Sir, it is with regret that we send you the conclusions of our investigation into the unfortunate demise of your son. We have determined that the deceased ran between cars onto Bell Avenue and was forcefully struck by a fast moving vehicle who then unlawfully left the scene without informing the police. The investigators determined that the deceased was at fault." "The hit and run suspect upon apprehension will be charged with unlawfully leaving the scene of an accident. A felony."

What do I care about cop talk. I want that guy caught and punished. I want him to suffer like my son suffered. They could have called me or asked me to report to the police station and explained it all. When they want charitable contributions or one of their own is killed they put on a big phony show of grief. They’re first in line for handouts and sympathy. No wonder people hate cops, the cold insensitive self-righteous bastards.

Son, I’ve been visiting you for three years and it seems that they never trim the grass around your grave marker. I always have to use my clippers. That’s strange the bronze marker is bright and shiny, someone’s polished it. My dark eyes well with tears as I touch his warm grave marker. Looking up the hill I see a woman in a beige suit looking towards us. Oh my God she’s coming down to me.

Who are you?

"Sir, please let me explain why I’m hiding from you. I ran away after I saw you at the window. I couldn’t stand the pain I saw in your eyes at the cemetery and at your home."

Why are you here?

"I need to be here to pray and ask forgiveness from your son. The last three years I’ve been in a convent in Senaque, France doing penance for the harm I’ve brought to you. For weeks I’ve been watching you bringing gifts, flowers and news to him.  I’m the one that struck him down in the street.  Please forgive me.

Every day I thought of catching his killer. Then  dreamt of ways to punish the brute in the most sadistic ways. Only a brute would do this and run away.

"Again Sir, I ask for your forgiveness, look I’ve scourged my body in penance, but it does no good,  that hot summer day won’t go away."

All this time I was blaming a man for this tragedy and it was you. Week after  long week lessened my bitterness. I no longer need to hate. You’ve suffered as much as I. You don’t need my forgiveness. You’re very young, go on with your life.

End

Copyright © 2000, John A. Vara

Courtesy Vara's Travel Publishing, all rights reserved. 

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