Incomplete Assembly

2nd Place 14-17 Category Junior Authors Short Story Contest 2009
 
by Mariah Dear
   
A weathered building stands before me, a picture of clear magnificence. The cross stands tall above the greying shingles of the rooftop, the door polished and fine.
I stopped believing in God long ago. But every Sunday I pack up my heavy heart and head to church anyways; more out of tradition than anything else. Today the wind blows hard, raking what’s left of my hair and harrowing the long, stretching fields. My eyes remain open but I’m not really seeing anything at all. Everything is a sea of meaningless grey.

I push the great doors of the church open and put on a forced smile, painfully aware that the hands on my watch are several minutes past where they should be.
I take my seat, rows of speculative faces watching my every move. But today... something is different. Something besides the scrutinizing eyes pointing my way, something besides the sea of too-polished faces and too-groomed heads that seem to be locked into place, staring at me. There is something else; something in the pastel colours of my neighbour’s dress, something in the flowers weaved through her daughter’s hair. They’ve stopped wearing black. And not just her: they’ve all stopped wearing black. The paper boy, the milkman and his wife, the priest’s daughter: they’re wearing their usual floral prints, their usual grey suits and colourful ties.

“So glad you could join us, Keith.” the priest smiles my way. But by now I’m too far away to notice, too distant to even nod. I’m long gone, back in the moment that I can’t help but replay in my mind, over and over again. I’m back in the moment that she died.

“Daddy,” she says.
“Yes sweetie?”
“I spy with my little eye something that is big and tall and brown.”
“A tree?” I guess. She nods. “Well… I spy with my little eye something that is bald and strong.”
“You!”
“What??? I am not bald… Grrrr... how dare you call me bald!” She giggles incessantly. “I meant an eagle!”
“Oh. I like my answer better.”
“Me too, sweetie. Me too.” She giggles again. Oh, to be six.
I bring my full focus back to the road, all too late.
Everything turns white.

“I see that we have our complete assembly with us here this Easter morning.” But she’s gone. “Today, Easter, is as of yet our most important gathering of the year.” Not to me. And I’m gone again, this time to somewhere not so far away, but to somewhere much more recent. I see the same assembly, sitting here, every one of these vivacious faces hollow and sombre, like mine. I see rows upon rows of black gowns and draped heads, bowed in her honour. I see tears of loss and tears of reluctance to understand. I feel both seeping down my cheeks.

Why Sarah? Why not somebody else? Why anyone at all? I walk up to her casket, which lay open, her young face still round with baby fat, calm and still. She wears no frown, she wears no smile. She wears death. “Sarah.” I whisper. “As long as you lay broken, so shall I be.” And, as I say the words, I know they are true. I will never heal.
I place the roses on her chest, to symbolise her beautiful life. 

...I suppose those flowers must be wilted now too.

I don’t mind the tears that come; I suppose they are inevitable. I don’t mind the glares that come with them, surprisingly hostile. The only thing I mind is how she is not here by my side. The only thing I mind is how life, love, death; how they have taken on new meaning, meaning so unfamiliar that I’m expecting everything I knew and trusted to deteriorate before my eyes… as did she.

I don’t hear the priest as he speaks of love, devotion, sin, appreciation. I don’t hear the gospel choir sing with joy, an emotion so inconceivable that the concept is almost laughable. There is something holding my laughter back, something that makes me choke on my tears and continue sitting in stricken silence. There are the days I smile, there are the days I cry, and there are the days I can do naught but simply wait for the death that must be upon me to take its toll. For what could this pain be: not grief? Not depression? The way these knives gut me… there is no doubt in my mind, this is death. To me.

I crawl unwillingly out from the back of my mind as the little girl with flowers in her hair crawls over me in her haste to join the other children in the aisle. They are excited. They know what is coming. I don’t.

“Ready… Set… Go!” And the children are scrambling, snatching eggs from posts and crosses and stained glass windows. I see them smile, picturing the prize, and I picture something anything but similar. I picture her. I see her reach down to pick up a stray egg that has dropped from someone’s basket. I see her dark curls, hanging limply around her face, and I see her smile, taut with childhood innocence. I see her pink cheeks, her dark lashes, her stocky frame bouncing as she runs to catch up to the other kids, whose baskets are fuller than hers. I see her jump to reach an egg, then turn towards me and hold it up. I can hear her voice. Daddy - look, I got one!

I tense in my seat, horrendously happy I watch her skitter around. I sit and wait for the pain, the grief, anything. I wait for the guilt, I wait for her image to disappear, to bring me back to reality. But, as the children return to their seats, baskets full of eggs, she returns to me. She has no problem passing through the pews, and sits herself beside me, where nobody else had dared to venture. She looks at me, with those piercing eyes, so mature for six. She looks at me, and in one fleeting moment, I have no trouble imagining that she understands everything that I’m going through.
I hear, but I don’t listen, to the voice speaking of Jesus, faintly in the background. I see, but don’t take in, the rows of people around me. I only see her small, simple face smiling back at me. And for one small, insignificant moment, I am content, even though the only face truly smiling is the priest’s upon the altar.

Mariah writes...

This whole piece started with the opening sentence; I stole it from a story I wrote a long time ago. The rest was created from it alone. I started with descriptions, which turned introspective and sad, and all of a sudden I had a character with a heart wrenching tale. His story came easily; I didn’t even have to think about it. Although, looking back, it stumps me - how did it all come from one little sentence?

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