Page 3 of New Growth
She had morphed into something unrecognizable since his death. In the days since his passing, she had reconceptualized their relationship. She was no longer a divorcee of almost a decade. She was now a broken widow, mourning the man who gave her such beautiful daughters and stole her heart away since the day they met.
I wasn’t in the headspace to argue, so I kept my mouth shut. We all mourned how we must.
The morning was overcast, and the air was heavy with the threat of rain. Fitting, as he loved the smell of rain. By the time we arrived, a crowd had already gathered—family, neighbors, Daddy’s old coworkers from the factory, and people I didn’t even recognize. They spoke in hushed tones, their faces painted with solemn expressions, as they drifted toward the church entrance in silence.
They offered condolences as they passed by, careful not to stir emotions that would result in uncomfortable tears and unnecessary outbursts. This was still a church after all, and there was no need to cause a scene.
Jonathan’s hand rested lightly on the small of my back, guiding me forward. I could feel the weight of his presence, steadying me in a way I didn’t want to admit I needed. Ma walked ahead of us with her back pin straight. The black dress she wore was perfectly pressed, and her chin was held high. Her hair was perfectly styled, and her lipstick was carefully applied. She looked every bit the grieving widow, especially in the way her lips were drawn into a tight line as if holding her grief in place like a dam.
Ryan trailed behind, her silence managing to cut through the hum of the murmured condolences and hit me in the chest. I glanced back at her, but she wouldn’t meet my eyes. She just hugged her arms around herself and stared at the ground as if it were the only thing keeping her upright.
She hadn’t said much to me since the hospital, and I didn’t need to hear the words to know what she was thinking. It was written in the way she avoided my eyes, in the way her jaw clenched every time someone mentioned Daddy’s name. She was angry, she was hurt. The only way to get those emotions out was by pointing them at me because no one else was available.
I was fine with that if it was what she needed. I could be the punching bag before the shoulder to cry on. I envied her, though; I wished I had my own dummy to knock around. Someone or something to take this out on, besides myself.
The inside of the church was stuffy, and the scent of lilies was overwhelming. The floral arrangements were extravagant, spilling over the altar and around the closed casket, which sat like an ominouscenterpiece. I stared at the polished wood, and reality hit me in sharp waves. Daddy was in there—silent, still, gone.
The four of us marched to the front of the church like soldiers as the spectators looked on. The Sawyers were on display. Raw and riddled with emotions that Katherine Sawyer never allowed anyone to see. Not when the house burned down when we were younger, not when she divorced her husband, and certainly not now when said husband would be laid to rest. She was strong, and that was her cross to bear while the crowd looked on.
Would she crack and finally break down, or would she stay strong for the family she now led?
Thankfully, she wouldn’t have to make the decision at this moment. Ma was immediately surrounded by a cluster of women, whispering their condolences and patting her arm as if that could somehow mend the pieces of her broken heart.
Jonathan led me to a pew near the front, and I slid in, barely noticing the scrape of my shoes against the polished floor. Ryan didn’t sit with us. She sat near the back with a few family members we hadn’t seen since we were teens at family reunions. Maybe she felt safer in the arms of familiar strangers than her own sister. I could feel her eyes boring into the back of my head, even as I tried to focus on the program in my hands.
As the service started, the women began to depart from my mother. Some paused to offer quiet condolences, clasping Ma’s hand or whispering words of sympathy. She nodded politely and murmured her thanks, but her expression never faltered.
My eyes landed on the casket. It appeared to gleam under the dim light, its polished wood far too pristine. It didn’t feel real. It didn’t feel like Daddy was in there. The man who laughed way too loud at his own jokes, who made up ridiculous words for things he couldn’t pronounce, who could fix anything with duct tape, his tool belt, and a little determination.
The man who could barbecue any meat you threw on the grill.
So many thoughts ran through my head as I stared at it.
Was he still all those things, or did the legend die with him?
I tortured myself with the contemplation.
The priest started the service, his voice low and steady as he spoke about life, death, and the promise of eternity. His words washed over me, blending into the whispers and the rustle of programs. Still, I staredat the casket. My vision blurred as tears threatened to spill during the sermon. Jonathan squeezed my hand, his thumb brushing over my knuckles in an attempt to calm me. I wanted to thank him for his efforts, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, I looked at my mother.
Ma sat perfectly still beside me, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She didn’t cry. She didn’t tremble. She just stared straight ahead, her expression unreadable.
I wished I could have borrowed some of her strength.
When the priest finished, people began to approach the podium to share their memories of Daddy. Some told stories that made the crowd laugh softly, a bittersweet sound that echoed through the vast space. Others shared quiet, tearful anecdotes about his kindness, his humor, and his huge heart.
When it was my turn to speak, I hesitated. My legs felt like lead as I made my way to the podium. The microphone crackled slightly as I adjusted it, and I cleared my throat, suddenly hyper-aware of every pair of eyes on me.
“I don’t really know what to say,” I began, my voice shaky. “I’ve been trying to come up with the right words, but nothing feels right. Nothing feels like enough.”
A few words of encouragement rang out, reassuring me to ‘take my time.’ I looked into the crowd to see my mother staring, silently begging me not to embarrass her. I gripped the edges of the podium so tightly my knuckles went white.
“Daddy was… everything. He was smart and funny, and all the things that were stated on this pulpit today. As cliche as it sounds, he was the kind of man who could light up a room just by walking into it. A true gentleman in the way he made everyone feel seen and valued. A perfect father if there was such a thing—but the man could be stubborn as hell.”
The church laughed a little at my very accurate words, and I even managed a chuckle. That was until my eyes landed on Ryan, who watched me with a hardened expression. I cleared my throat before continuing.
“He loved us so much.” My voice cracked, and I paused, taking a shaky breath.
Keep it brief before a breakdown happens.
