I was just a child when she worked for him.
Decades later, I join her at his funeral. We’re holding hands, wearing our finest dark clothes, heads bowed in respect. Strangers keep telling me about him, but she says nothing.
My heart rustles at the unease I sense in her, and I hold her hand more tightly. She squeezes it back, and her hands are smooth with long, fine fingers. She is soft– happy but delicate– and I wonder if events like this take a toll on someone so frail.
In a moment of planning confusion, the speaker calls her to the stage. She objects, but there’s no polite way to quietly avoid the circumstance.
Reluctantly cajoled to the podium, she observes her audience. The mood is somber, but they smile for her. They know her. Where she is, kindness follows. If she doesn’t have something nice to say, she says nothing at all– and yet, she always finds a way to speak her truth. Her observances are dances through paradoxical balance, and she is known for this gift.
The crowd leans towards her, waiting for her introspective light.
Their black attire rustles.
Minutes pass in total quiet.
The audience shifts.
Her chin is high, her eyes are on us, but she is silent.
It speaks volumes.
The mood is growing increasingly dark, and I wonder if she’ll stay silent the whole time. I can feel the rest of the audience wondering the same.
A weaker person would have given in to the awkwardness. My own nerves are stretched thin. Just this once, I beg her wordlessly, say something nice, even if you don’t have anything nice to say.
She breaks from her trance as if she hears me. The audience breathes a sigh of relief as she smiles. I can see from the brightness in her eyes that she has found her truth.
“He worked for a wonderful company. He worked with good people. He was part of something that did good things. He was blessed.”
She steps away, time moves on, and the show continues.
No one makes eye contact with us on the way out, and I realize that it wasn’t just me who heard the noisy omission in her truth.
I realize it wasn’t just her who knew the truth.
I hold her hand tightly.
She squeezes it back.
This time, despite the softness of her skin, I feel her strength.
Are you as strong as you look? Stronger? Less strong?
