Short Story
The Chapel I sat in was lined with wooden pews, unadorned as befitted the sombre mood. Inside the atmosphere was oppressive and a faint mustiness hung in the air. I was vaguely aware of the murmurs and rustlings of the other mourners as they took their seats. I dabbed my eyes with the hanker-chief as the deeply moving and melancholy chords of “Amazing Grace” began to filter through the stony walls.
Ahead of the pews the mahogany casket was polished to a glossy shine and adorned with pale pink and white roses. Inside laid the body of my grandmother. Her life ended not tragically but inevitably. It was a day that I had anticipated with a sense of dread. Over the past few months I had felt a sense of restlessness and an inability to see clearly or make plans for the future. It was as if my grandmother limned the past and if that past no longer existed how could I possibly anticipate a future?
Memories are extraordinary. There are voids in one’s remembrances, yet the mind can conjure up detailed images of others. As the youngest in the family my “pre loved bicycle was a battered royal red etched with a silver logo. On countless Sundays I had ridden up the hill, over the rise and passing the weeping willow, to arrive at my grandmother’s house.
Invariably, she would be cooking in her kitchen. I vividly recall the fragrant aromas arousing my insatiable adolescent appetite. Sometimes she would be seated outside on the concrete porch on the wicker chair with her ebony cat. However the cat’s name is one of the memories that had alluded me, yet I recall the sun’s warmth rays shining as the cat stretches its back to capture the rays, in at attempt to hold on to it forever.
Nestled in a quiet, Californian Bungalow had been a solid respectable house. Yet it was one of dire ennui without the comfort and warmth provided by grandmother. I recall being at my grandmother’s house had been one of antiquity that seemed to stretch far as the Roman Empire itself. My
Ahead of the pews the mahogany casket was polished to a glossy shine and adorned with pale pink and white roses. Inside laid the body of my grandmother. Her life ended not tragically but inevitably. It was a day that I had anticipated with a sense of dread. Over the past few months I had felt a sense of restlessness and an inability to see clearly or make plans for the future. It was as if my grandmother limned the past and if that past no longer existed how could I possibly anticipate a future?
Memories are extraordinary. There are voids in one’s remembrances, yet the mind can conjure up detailed images of others. As the youngest in the family my “pre loved bicycle was a battered royal red etched with a silver logo. On countless Sundays I had ridden up the hill, over the rise and passing the weeping willow, to arrive at my grandmother’s house.
Invariably, she would be cooking in her kitchen. I vividly recall the fragrant aromas arousing my insatiable adolescent appetite. Sometimes she would be seated outside on the concrete porch on the wicker chair with her ebony cat. However the cat’s name is one of the memories that had alluded me, yet I recall the sun’s warmth rays shining as the cat stretches its back to capture the rays, in at attempt to hold on to it forever.
Nestled in a quiet, Californian Bungalow had been a solid respectable house. Yet it was one of dire ennui without the comfort and warmth provided by grandmother. I recall being at my grandmother’s house had been one of antiquity that seemed to stretch far as the Roman Empire itself. My