Skipping Stones - COMPLETE

Chapter 22

"He smiled. 'God won't give you more than you can handle. You know that because there have been times when you didn't think you'd make it, but you did.'

"He was a devout Episcopalian. His faith never wavered even in the most difficult times of losing a child. At least not that I could tell.

"So see, I couldn't argue with that statement, and he knew it." I laugh. "He always loved having the final word. I gave him a weak smile, a strong hug, and told him, 'I love you, Papa.'

"'Papa loves you,' he mumbled into my hair.

"Today I stand before you, and as badly as my heart hurts, he was right. I will be okay. We all will be. Not because we didn't love him and we won't miss him every second of every day, but because he instilled in us the strength that made him so special. He is no longer suffering. He's at peace, in a better place. Today, I celebrate his life. All that he was, and I start my countdown until I am able to sit on his lap once more."

I gather my tear-stained notes, and walk back to my pew. Memaw is sobbing, but she has a small smile. "Alex, that was beautiful," she breathes into my ear.

I nod and take the tissue she has offered me. I dab my eyes and cover my mouth to absorb the wails that are escaping my body.

The rest of the service is a blur to me. Go Rest High on That Mountain by Vince Gill is played, which only makes me more of a mess. He loved that song so much. It's followed by How Great Thou Art. I glance around as I sit and try to ignore the lyrics. He would have been so flattered to see how many people are here. There is no seating available in St. Paul's Episcopal Church today. There's really not even standing room. It makes me smile slightly, but then I remember how much I miss him, that he'll never walk down the aisle again. He'll never sing in the choir again. I look to the casket and can't believe that My Papa is in that wooden box. I want him back for just one more day. I want to tell him goodbye, but then again, I don't say goodbye. Goodbyes signify something more permanent, and I know that this time apart for us is only temporary. There is a small amount of comfort in that.

Part of me wishes I could use my ability to compartmentalize right now, but I can't completely disassociate. I don't want to. I need to grieve his death. So I clench my eyes closed, holding my chest to feel the beat of my heart, hoping that the pressure of my hands will alleviate the weight of the bricks that I've become all too familiar with.

Soon the service is over. I watch the ushers walk to wheel his flag draped coffin out of the church and onto the Graniteville Cemetery. Visitation is hard. Funerals are even harder, but nothing compares to the graveside service. Memaw grasps my shoulders and helps walk me out of the building and into the family car. I can do this. I can do this.

The bad thing about being in the family car is that we're directly behind the hearse. So for the entire ride to the cemetery, I'm watching a car carrying the body of my Papa. It's unreal. Mr. Knapp hands me another tissue. I got into the front so that Memaw's sister could sit with her. With my knee injury, it is also hard for me to even imagine climbing into the back. "Thank you," I sniff.

He glances towards me and gives me a sympathetic smile. "You're welcome," is all he says.

Soon we're at the burial plot. Mr. Knapp parks the car and comes to the side to help me out of the vehicle. "Watch your step right there, Alex."

I nod. "Thanks."

Then he ushers me and my family to the first row of seats. Just as I thought I had calmed down, looking at the hole in the ground, the grave, that has been dug for My Papa causes the tears to freely flow from my eyes. Everything is a blur.

The service starts. Thank goodness it's quick. The typical 'dust to dust, ashes to ashes' spiel. I see a car in the distance with its lights on, but the person is still inside. It's too far away for me to see who is in it, but it seems odd...out of place. Soon, I am distracted from it when I hear commands and guns being cocked.