Four days later, Aunt Cassie’s fiancé,
Jack, laid before us in a casket. His father wept in a corner while his mother
gently rubbed his back through her own tears. Pictures of Jack filled up
the dimly lit room. People spoke in hushed tones about what a wonderful young man
he was and wasn’t it a shame that he was robbed of such a promising future.
And there was mother, in her yellow
dress. She had her dark brown hair combed back and pulled in to a French twist.
Her makeup was flawless. If I had to use one word to describe her on that day,
or on any of her “good days,” it would be “magic.” She carried herself in a way
that others wanted to know her, men and women alike. She was confident and
easily captivated those she was engaged with.
As she stood there, I couldn’t help but
envy the fantasy that she lived in. Mother had decided that Jack’s death was a
celebration. She had decided that she wouldn’t cry a single tear or feel a
single thing. When reality was too difficult to swallow, she simply created a
new one. Just like that. With the snap of her fingers.
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