In Our Faith...

In our faith, we keep what we kill"

-The Lord Marshal, The Chronicles of Riddick



This post has nothing to do with what we kill.



When Mrs. A's mother died, we had a funeral.

The guest of honor's only sibling, her brother, was of course present, and...

...and when they wheeled the coffin from its place at the head of the chapel for us to place the grave goods...

...the flowers...

...the candy...

...and the flowers...

...her favorite hat and scarf...

...and the flowers...

...the doll she'd cuddled in the hospital when she was still present enough to cuddle...

...and the flowers, the endless flowers...

...and all the sundries that would accompany her to the afterlife, or at least the crematorium, her brother let out a sob, no other word for it, a heart-wrending, heart-wrenching sob of pure agony and turned away from the body of his sister, honored and missed and adored by so many people in that great funeral hall with its yards and yards of flowers and chairs and mourners and he turned away and wept and...

No​

One​

Went to him​

No one comforted him.

In our faith....

In their faith...

In their faith, the polite thing, the correct thing, the right thing was to leave him and his moment of weakness unnoticed.

Or so I assume.

We don't discuss such things.

And a year and a half later, the widower, Mrs. A's father...

May not be doing well.