his father in his memory as alive and strong. Instead here lay this still, inert figure of a man, a mere shadow of the man he had known and looked to for nearly everything for all of his life.
He turned to his mother, seeking comfort, thinking at this moment only of himself.
“Oh no,” he sobbed. “No—no—no!”
His mother said nothing. She put her arms about him, and after a moment she spoke.
“Come,” she said. “We can do no more for him now—except live as he wanted us to live.”
And she led him away.
LIFE BEGAN AGAIN SOMEHOW. THEfew days before the funeral were a dull maze of grief, the funeral was an hour of incredible agony.
“Dust to dust—,” the minister intoned at last, and he heard the dull thud of clods falling upon the coffin. He and his mother stood hand-in-hand, transfixed in horror, until someone, the minister or a neighbor, someone, led them away. Someone said, “This at least you need not endure.”
And they left the others and were driven back to the house, which no longer seemed a home but only a house that happened to be theirs.
Someone said, “Tell me, would you rather have us stay with you or would you rather be alone?”
“Thank you—we’d rather be alone,” his mother said. They were left then, alone in the house. The foolish dog leaped and jumped about them joyously, and neither of them could bear it.
“Put the dog in the garage,” his mother said.
He put the dog in the garage and then came back to the kitchen and sat down at the table while his mother cooked something.
“Neither of us will be hungry,” she said, “but I’ll bake some gingerbread and make that special sweet sauce you like.”
“Don’t bother, please, Mother,” he said.
“I’m better doing something,” she said.
He sat in silence then, watching her and wishing he did not think of his father lying white and still under the newly piled earth. He tried indeed most earnestly to remember his father as he had been when he was well, the autumn days when they had tramped in the woods, the winter days when his father had taught him how to ski, the summer days when he had taught him how to swim. It seemed to him now that everything he had learned his father had taught him. Who would teach him now?
“It is terrible—terrible—terrible—”
The words burst from him and his mother stopped her stirring in the big yellow bowl and looked at him, spoon in hand.
“What are you thinking, son?” she asked gently.
“He’s lying there all alone—in the ground—in the ground , Mother! There ought to be a better way.”
“Yet I couldn’t bear to think of his body—his beautiful, beautiful body—burned to ashes,” she cried passionately. “A handful of ashes—no, I couldn’t bear it. There’d be nothing left. As it is—he’s decently clothed, he’s in a sort of bed—alone, of course.”
Suddenly she began to weep in great, heaving sobs. She dropped the spoon into the bowl and covered her face with her hands. He leaped to her side and put his arms about her. He was as tall as her now, and suddenly he felt her small and in need of help and protection. But he did not tell her to stop crying. Somehow he knew better than that. He could no more take his father’s place with her than she could take his father’s place with him. They had to continue as they were, mother and son, sharing as much of life as they could.
As though she felt what he was thinking she suddenly stopped weeping. She lifted her head from his shoulder and pushed him gently aside, wiping her eyes with her apron.
“I must finish the gingerbread,” she said.
He left her then and went upstairs to his own room and, drawing the armchair to the window, he sat watching the dusk change to darkness. He was not thinking, he was only feeling—feeling his loneliness, feeling his mother’s loneliness, feeling the emptiness of the house, the emptiness of his world. He did not turn on the light but sat in darkness until his
He turned to his mother, seeking comfort, thinking at this moment only of himself.
“Oh no,” he sobbed. “No—no—no!”
His mother said nothing. She put her arms about him, and after a moment she spoke.
“Come,” she said. “We can do no more for him now—except live as he wanted us to live.”
And she led him away.
LIFE BEGAN AGAIN SOMEHOW. THEfew days before the funeral were a dull maze of grief, the funeral was an hour of incredible agony.
“Dust to dust—,” the minister intoned at last, and he heard the dull thud of clods falling upon the coffin. He and his mother stood hand-in-hand, transfixed in horror, until someone, the minister or a neighbor, someone, led them away. Someone said, “This at least you need not endure.”
And they left the others and were driven back to the house, which no longer seemed a home but only a house that happened to be theirs.
Someone said, “Tell me, would you rather have us stay with you or would you rather be alone?”
“Thank you—we’d rather be alone,” his mother said. They were left then, alone in the house. The foolish dog leaped and jumped about them joyously, and neither of them could bear it.
“Put the dog in the garage,” his mother said.
He put the dog in the garage and then came back to the kitchen and sat down at the table while his mother cooked something.
“Neither of us will be hungry,” she said, “but I’ll bake some gingerbread and make that special sweet sauce you like.”
“Don’t bother, please, Mother,” he said.
“I’m better doing something,” she said.
He sat in silence then, watching her and wishing he did not think of his father lying white and still under the newly piled earth. He tried indeed most earnestly to remember his father as he had been when he was well, the autumn days when they had tramped in the woods, the winter days when his father had taught him how to ski, the summer days when he had taught him how to swim. It seemed to him now that everything he had learned his father had taught him. Who would teach him now?
“It is terrible—terrible—terrible—”
The words burst from him and his mother stopped her stirring in the big yellow bowl and looked at him, spoon in hand.
“What are you thinking, son?” she asked gently.
“He’s lying there all alone—in the ground—in the ground , Mother! There ought to be a better way.”
“Yet I couldn’t bear to think of his body—his beautiful, beautiful body—burned to ashes,” she cried passionately. “A handful of ashes—no, I couldn’t bear it. There’d be nothing left. As it is—he’s decently clothed, he’s in a sort of bed—alone, of course.”
Suddenly she began to weep in great, heaving sobs. She dropped the spoon into the bowl and covered her face with her hands. He leaped to her side and put his arms about her. He was as tall as her now, and suddenly he felt her small and in need of help and protection. But he did not tell her to stop crying. Somehow he knew better than that. He could no more take his father’s place with her than she could take his father’s place with him. They had to continue as they were, mother and son, sharing as much of life as they could.
As though she felt what he was thinking she suddenly stopped weeping. She lifted her head from his shoulder and pushed him gently aside, wiping her eyes with her apron.
“I must finish the gingerbread,” she said.
He left her then and went upstairs to his own room and, drawing the armchair to the window, he sat watching the dusk change to darkness. He was not thinking, he was only feeling—feeling his loneliness, feeling his mother’s loneliness, feeling the emptiness of the house, the emptiness of his world. He did not turn on the light but sat in darkness until his
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