The Saying

Chapter 1

    I guess you could call me a horrible person for not crying today. I mean it was MY husband that died, but I couldn't let it sink in just yet. No, I couldn't let myself believe the truth, just yet.

  His coffin was going into the ground and they called me over to toss dirt into the grave, as well as anything else I wanted to throw down there and let rot over the years. I had nothing.

   Everyone watched me, awkwardly, as I grabbed the dirt with my now dry and wrinkly hands. I slowly moved my arm over the grave, took a deep breath, let the dirt fall out of my hands, and whispered, "Goodbye Dear."

   I remember Alaric use to tell me I had small hands. He'd tease me every now and then, but right after, he'd hold my so-called-tiny hands in his and tell me he loved me. I'd then forget what he teased me about; at least until he left the room.

All the teases came back into my mind the other day, and I felt the anxiety coming back as well. I pushed it down as far as I could. Now it is slamming a ten pound book to my chest over and over again as I stand above the 7 foot grave looking down at my dead husband's coffin.

With every piece of dirt, followed a thump and sent chills down my spine. This thumping sound reminds me of another thumping sound coming from inside my chest. Call it what you will, but I call it anxiety.

Anxiety from standing in front of a crowd of familiar faces, throwing dirt at the dead, and being forced to say a few words about the man I have lived with for almost my entire life. What could go wrong?

"We would've been better off burnin' 'em" I heard someone whisper to another greedy ear.

I turned my head towards the whispering and saw Old Lady Karen and everyone's favorite baker, Fran. A smirk from their hellish joke formed across the bottom half of their face. My eyes narrowed and I held my hand to my side in effort to fight the urge to smack them silly, if not dead.

  I turned my head back to the old man preaching about life. I watch him wave his arms around and talk about my husband as if he knew him, as if he lived with him for most of his life.

  My husband was a romantic. One day it'd be roses, the next it'd be chocolates. Never did he come home without something, and sometimes his lips were just as good as any gift he could have given me.

The thought of his lips at this moment, being frozen and pale like the rest of his body, sent more chills through my spine.

Suddenly it got quiet, the man stopped speaking and everyone was looking at me. They were waiting for me to say something. The man crossed his arms politely and smiled at me welcoming me into the mental spotlight I didn't want to be in.

I smiled back weakly and looked up at the crowd of people. I searched and studied their faces. Some looked bored, and some were faking the biggest frown they could come up with. All of them pale from the cold.

"My husband," the words stung as they came out of my mouth, "was a great man."

   I licked my lips and studied the crowd more. Some tilted their heads and some looked away. I knew I could say nothing they would understand or didn't already know.

My mouth remained open as my thoughts wandered away from reality. I continued to scan the crowd and stopped when I saw a familiar face. She frowned politely towards me and stared me straight in the eyes. Her lips formed silent words that told me she needed to talk to me.

This familiar face was a nurse at the hospital, the one who talked to my husband a few minutes before he was gone. I watched her leave the crowd after I nodded and continued with my speech.

"He left us too soon." I choked up the words and forced one more sentence out before tears filled my eyes.

   "Missing him is putting it mildly."