A Small Good Thing

My eyes stare straight ahead. They do not blink. They do not flicker. They merely stare straight ahead at the glistening box surrounded by daisies and roses.

This place is without silence somehow. From every corner comes the dark sound of muffled tears and hushed whispers. The occasional person touches my shoulder, and speaks soft words of condolence.

I do no turn to them. My eyes never leave the mahogany box. My gaze is dry. My body is completely rigid. The priest begins to speak, but his words are lost in my deaf ears.

I am aware that my brother is crying. My whole family is crying. But not me. I have not shed a tear for that day I am unable to. And it haunts me.

I haven’t spoken in days, and I cannot remember the last time I ate something. My eyes are bloodshot from my inability to sleep.

My family is moving. My feet do not move, and my eyes never stray from the wooden box.

My brother’s hand wraps around my arm, and he tries to pull me along.

My voice approaches for the first time in days. “Don’t.” It is small and without emotion, but it is forceful.

He leaves me, and I continue to stare blankly at the engraved box.

A presence comes to my side, and though I do not look, I know who it is. He makes no move to touch me. No ‘I’m so sorry’s” come from his mouth.

He gives me the blessed silence that I need and merely stands beside me.

Something burning runs down my cheek, and my face breaks. My knees buckle, and I fall.

Arms wrap around me before I hit and pull me up against him. What seems like years of tears come forth, and my head rests on his chest; my body shakes.

But still he says nothing, and I am thankful. Comfort does not come from words but from the absence of.

Sam Uttecht