10:00 a.m.
St. Brigid's Chapel.
The funeral service was held in a small white chapel overlooking the sea, where the stained-glass windows caught the muted light of an overcast morning. Outside, a cold breeze carried the scent of salt and damp earth through rows of freshly cut flowers, while the cemetery beyond sat in quiet stillness beneath a blanket of gray clouds.
Mara barely noticed the weather. She hadn’t really noticed anything since that call. Days had stopped meaning anything that made sense. Morning, night, it all blurred into the same hollow stretch of waiting for something that would never come back.
Standing in front of everyone, the paper shook in Mara’s hands. She had rewritten the eulogy seven times, maybe more. She’d folded and unfolded it, pressed it flat, smudged it with her thumbprints and tears during these sleepless nights.
She let herself look at the casket at the front of the chapel. Her chest felt tight. She swallowed, the sound loud in her own ears, and turned her gaze to the faces in the pews. A sea of somber suits and dresses. Family, friends, your old coworkers, the neighbor who always waved at you both… they were all here. Witnesses to an ending she still couldn’t comprehend.
“I don’t know how to stand here and talk about you in the past tense.”
For a second, that was all anyone heard, the echo of her voice, small and hurting. Somebody somewhere in the back sniffled. Mara stared down at that worn paper, blinking away more tears, and forced herself forward. The microphone gave a low, static hum as she leaned toward it.
“I keep writing ‘was’ and wanting to cross it out because in my mind you are still my wife. You’re the first person I look for when something good happens, the first one I want to tell when the day falls apart. You’re the voice I expect to hear when I walk through our front door.” She paused, her breath shuddering. “Somewhere deep down, none of that has changed. I don’t think it ever will.”
Her eyes drifted to the large framed photograph beside the flowers. It was from your trip to Maine two summers ago. There you were, caught mid-laugh, head thrown back, the sun turning your hair into a halo, looking at her, love shining right in your eyes.
“People keep asking me what you were like,” she continued, dragging her gaze back to the crowd. "How do you even begin to answer that? Do I tell them about the blanket thief? How you’d somehow annex every blanket on the bed by midnight and then, in the morning, swear with those innocent eyes that you had no idea how it happened?” A soft, tearful chuckle rippled through a few pews.
"Maybe about you dancing right there in the kitchen, bare feet on tile, whenever the radio plays your favorite song, dragging me with you. Or how your laugh had this way of taking over a whole room."She managed a fragile, fleeting smile.
“Do I tell them that being with you made anywhere feel like home? Just your presence, that’s all it took."
"There are so many little pieces of you the world will never get to know. The way you’d reach for my hand without even thinking about it."
She closed her eyes for a moment.
“How you’d remember the tiniest things I’d forgotten I’d ever told you. A year later, you’d reference some offhand comment I’d made about liking a specific type of pear, and there they’d be, in the grocery bag.” She opened her eyes, tears spilling over.
“Or the way you’d look at me on my worst days, when I felt like I was failing at everything… you’d look at me, and for a moment, I’d believe you. I’d believe I was worthy of all that love you gave so freely.”
She broke off, a sob wrenching itself from her throat. She gripped the paper so tightly it crumpled in her fist. Her eyes fixed on the dark, polished wood ahead.
“I can’t…” she gasped, her voice breaking. She took a shaky breath, trying to steady herself, but it didn’t come. The air refused to fill her lungs.
"I can't... stop thinking about all the ordinary moments we lost. The groceries we’ll never buy together. Silly arguments over whether it’s your night to pick the movie. Trips we never took. Birthdays we won’t celebrate. Or growing old together." Blinded by tears, she tried to wipe her eyes with the back of her hand.
"When I promised I’d love you forever, I thought forever meant we'd have decades. I wasn't prepared to learn that forever could mean standing in front of your coffin.”
The chapel went quiet again as she sobbed softly.
“People... People tell me time heals everything,” Mara murmured, her head shaking, the idea almost made her laugh bitterly.
“But I don’t want time to heal you away. I don’t want to wake up and realize I can’t hear your laugh, or remember the feel of your hand in mine, or the way you’d call my name. I don’t want to let that go.”
She covered her mouth, unable to speak for a long moment. The only sounds were her shuddering attempts to breathe and her muffled crying. She stood there, swaying slightly, anchored only by the lectern.
When she was finally able to continue, the words barely made it past her lips. “If grief is the price for having loved you, then I’ll pay it every day. I’ll keep carrying it, even if it’s heavy." She looked directly at your photograph, her expression of grief and love. "Because knowing you, loving you is worth every ounce of pain I feel now.”
She took a shaky breath, holding on for just a bit longer.
“And if somehow… wherever you are… if you can still hear me, I need you to know that I kept my promise. I still love you, I still choose you. Every day, every time and in every lifetime I could ever imagine. If I found you again, I would do it all over without hesitation, even knowing how this ends.” She whispered, a fresh stream of tears traced clean paths on her cheeks.
She leaned forward, her lips almost touching the microphone, and breathed the last words into the silent chapel. "Goodbye, my love. Until we meet again."