Overcast skies turned rainy as we left the church. The cooler weather, at last feeling like fall, seemed appropriate for laying loved ones to rest.
Ryan preferred the season. He called it the Goldilocks time of year. It wasn’t too hot or too cold. He said it was just right. I was trying my best to hold on to those happy frivolous memories, but it was hard. Damn hard.
The processional to the cemetery was short and too quiet. Despite my mother-in-law’s objections, she rode in the limo with Mom. Since Josh refused to leave my side, we took his truck to the site. He continued glancing at me, probably wondering if I was okay. I was as good as I would be. If I said anything, I’d shed more tears, and I was so done with crying.
After the burial, I plastered on a thankful expression. An endless cavalcade of mourners showed up to offer their condolences. Josh and Mom got me through it. Ryan’s family, stoic as ever, smiled and shook hands.
I was grateful for the support, but what I genuinely craved was for it to stop. Sadly, it was the nature of funerals. The barrage kept going like that little energetic rabbit.
Every hour of every day and night they arrived.
They appeared with dishes and flowers and sympathies.
They came with so many regrets and kind words.
On some level, I was sure those utterances were genuine, but I couldn’t acknowledge them.
So I smiled.
I smiled as if I were a raving lunatic fresh out of the asylum.
And I prayed for deliverance.
Because I knew, deep down, my life would get worse before it would be better. Justice was waiting. I didn’t know how it would happen, only that it would. And when that bitch served up her brand of righteousness, it would include me.
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