Imperfect

T W E N T Y - O N E - A B I G A L E M U L L I N S

Our weeps of anguish and discomfort whirled throughout the room of brokenhearted people.

  This day was soon approaching us, but we didn't anticipate it to approach us this soon.

I was mounted on the brown, old podium, watching—overseeing the visitors of this wretched, distressing day that I wanted to be over as quickly as possible.

A napkin was tightly in my hand, just in case I needed it if any more water works happened—which occurred every minute or so.

My mother stood in the front row, scooted closely to my father—holding her bible very securely.

"He was a good man," I went on, trying to hold all of my tears from coming out, patting my dry face with my used napkin, "he was everything to me—he was everything to all of you. He is someone that would never be forgotten."

I could hear my little cousin-in-laws crying from the back.

  Watching their mother, I stopped for a moment to look at Joan hug her three children tightly as they were crying for the loss of their cousin.

"I want him here," I continued, "I wish he was here for one last minute to speak to us. I wish that I could've seen the real him before he left us—before he left this world so soon."

"He is looking over us now," I went on, trying to be strong for myself and for everyone inside the church, "we are here in Valdosta to say goodbye to a good man, a good son, a good nephew, a good cousin, a good friend, a good brother, a good father, and a good husband."

I couldn't continue to speak on my dead husband; I wanted to, but I couldn't say anything else about him, because I couldn't take it.

I was at a loss of words.

  Turning around to look at my husband's body, I collapsed on the floor.

I heard wheezes from every inch of the room. My mother ran up to the platform to give me a hand, picking me up from where I collapsed.

"I have one more thing to say," I expressed to everyone in the room, gloomily standing up on the podium while my mother was holding on to my arm cautiously, making sure that I wouldn't collapse back onto the floor again for the second time, "if you know me, then you know I'm a really superstitious person—today, I don't care. A pregnant woman isn't supposed to be at a funeral; that's what I was taught when I was young. I don't know if it's okay to be at a funeral when my baby is fully formed or not fully formed, but I don't care, because I needed to be here with my husband; I wanted to be here with my husband—I had to be here for my husband..."