They all speak like my parents were myths. Untouchable. Unshakable.
But they were real.
They weremine.
When the officiant asks if anyone else would like to speak, there’s a long pause. I don’t stand.
Donovan gently squeezes my hand, but I can’t even look at him. My body is made of glass and grief and nothing else.
A few moments pass.
Then I rise.
I don’t remember walking to the podium, but suddenly I’m there, the entire chapel waiting.
I grip the sides of the lectern and stare down at the paper in front of me. It’s blank. I didn’t write a speech. I couldn’t.
So I just speak.
“I don’t know how to say goodbye to you,” I whisper. “I don’t want to.”
I swallow hard.
“You weren’t perfect. You were late to my art galleries. You forgot to pick up dry cleaning. You made rules I hated and asked questions I didn’t want to answer. But you weremine.You were my parents.”
My voice cracks.
“You taught me how to work. How to protect my name. How to lead and how tolove.You taught me to show up even when it hurts.”
I pause, breathing shallow and sharp.
“And now I have to show up for this. Forthis.”
My fingers curl inward.
“You told me you had everything planned. And you did. Of course you did. But you didn’t plan for what I’m supposed to doafter.You didn’t tell me how to wake up without hearing your voices. Or how to come back to the house without smelling your cologne and crying like a child.”
I let the silence hold.
“I love you. I don’t know how to do this without you. But I’ll try.”
I step down before I can shatter.
When the final notes of the string quartet fade into quiet, the caskets are wheeled out—one at a time. I follow them with my eyes, but I don’t stand. I can’t.
Donovan helps me to my feet. My knees buckle, just a little. He catches me. Wraps me up in his arms like I might float away.
I don’t cry until we’re alone in the car.
And when I do, it’s not quiet.
It’s not graceful.
It’s every goodbye I didn’t want to say—torn from me like ribs from my chest.
Donovan
They lower her father first.
