I blink, my eyes misty, and quickly realize I’m not the only one.A man in the pew across from us retrieves a handkerchief from his pocket, and next to me, Jacob removes his glasses.
“You all right?” I ask quietly.
He wipes at his eyes with his free hand. “Yeah,” he says. He picks his glasses back up, trying to clean them one-handed with the edge of his jacket, but isn’t able to fully manage it.
I pull my hand out of his grasp to give him better range of motion, but he reaches back for it immediately, gently interlacing our fingers again.
My gaze swings to his.
“I’m not,” he says, his voice a whisper. “I’m not okay right now. But I will be.”
And something about that admission makes me move closer to him, closing the little space between us, the length of his thigh now touching mine.
I’ve gotten so used to hearing that someone isfine,to saying that I’m justfine,but from the beginning Jacob has pushed past that, asking for the truth and giving it in return.
For the rest of the service, he leaves his glasses in his lap and his hand in mine, only breaking away when it’s time for him to lead the procession to the burial grounds.
—
The hymn the family requested is beautiful, and it’s one I’ve heard before. We weren’t regular church attenders, but for a while my mother and I went to a small Tamil church near our house. It was nice to meet other people like me when I was a child, to find friends who not only shared the same culture, but also knew what it felt like to belong to a religious minority within that culture.
But some people at that church hadn’t liked that my mom was divorced and a single mother, and we started going less frequently once they made those opinions known.
A shiver travels over my arms, and I look up at the overcast sky. The rain’s let up now, the air cool and misty, and I stand near the back, watching the burial process until it’s over and the notes of “Amazing Grace” begin to play.
Just like before, the music vibrates through me, as if every bone, every cell in my body has come alive, and as I look around, I see it’s a collective experience. The way the sound carries on the wind, moving through the crowd, starting with Jacob and transforming all ofus.
The wind whips through his hair. I can’t quite make out his expression from this distance, but I wonder if he knows what a gift he has, what a gift he’s providing to everyone here. To me.
The song comes to an end, and after a quick benediction and a reminder from the family about the reception at their home, we’re released.
I see Elsie and Iain make their way over to Jacob, shaking his hand, talking to him for a bit, but as soon as they’re done, Jacob’s head snaps up, scanning the crowd, only stopping when he finds me.
“Hi,” he says, making his way over.
“Hi.” I tilt my head up to take in his expression. His warm brown eyes are clear and bright, and his face is relaxed, his full lips not curved up or pulled tight, but simply at rest. “How are you feeling?” I ask him.
“Good,” he says, lifting his bag higher on his arm. “Better.”
“Are you sure? Because you’re done now, so we don’t have to go anywhere. To the reception or anything. We can just go back.”
“I already told Elsie I’d be there, but if you want to go back—”
“No,” I say. “I’m coming with you.”
We leave the church grounds, following the general direction of the crowd. The house where the reception is being held is a short drive away, and Jacob tells me that Iain and Elsie have offered to take us there.
“Brian only had the one son,” Elsie tells us when we arrive at thereception. “He lives in London, so we had thought we’d host the purvey at the inn, but he said he wanted to arrange all of it. He rented this place for the week.” She looks at it, assessing. “First time I’m seeing it.”
“Should’ve had it at the inn,” Iain mutters.
Jacob’s lips quirk at that, and I hold back a smile. There’s something about Iain’s surliness that I’m starting to find endearing, and Jacob appears to feel the same way.
We’ve barely taken three steps inside the house when a child runs toward us, barreling for Iain, wrapping his arms around Iain’s knees.
“Grandad!” the boy cries.
And for the first time today, I see Iain crack a smile.
