Prompt: His grief deeper than an ocean, emptier than Sunday.
One. It’s a dark night. I’m cold as I step out of the car onto the street corner, wind blowing my hair in my face.
Two. I’m standing just past the doors in the church. Despite the number of people, I’m cold. Brittle.
Three. No one is talking. We are all islands. I wander the packed pews, people shoulder to shoulder in a sea of black. I stand. My mother on one side, a dancer I hardly recognize on the other. The church quiets. We listen.
Four. The people around me are crying. I can feel the tears streaming down my own cheeks. We do not touch. To touch would be an acceptance of the need for comfort, an acceptance of what is going on.
Five. It’s over.
Six. I spot her—her grief deeper than an ocean, emptier than Sunday. It radiates off her in the same way it does us all.
Seven. I’m waiting to say something, anything.
Eight. We hug. I want to tell her everything. That I am so sorry. That Mairead was incredible. That she will be missed.
Nine. I open my mouth. “Shhhh,” she says. “Words can’t always express what is felt.”
Ten. I nod. She knows.