Above them, the tepid lights flickered, flirting with a deep autumn black. There was the memory of thunder. And as she stared at the altar ahead, where a woman could forever lie, there was also the trace of freedom.
Was it possible for J. to be so borad, so tall? She couldn’t remember, although the hazy image of last night led her to remember him only in lyric motion, never still as he would sit.
Already the day had been long: Princeton before dawn, the writing stars burning to the Junction, the heaving trains piled with wealthy commuters, the almost barren subway, with its rush hour passengers travelling backwards.
The church was a twelve m inute walk from the station, cuddled by silent white Bronx homes. She was grateful to find B. ahead of her – he was steadfast to her thoughtless frenzy. A different service still tittered along behind bulbous wooden doors. They waited; waited for warmth.
W. appears at some point, a haven she didn’t know she was waiting for. Maybe before that, the old Spanish women spilled out of the sanctuary, stopping to press their lips to the divine statues guarding the lobby. Did they do this every morning?
So W. arrives, and now they are three. She worries out loud about finals she will not study for.
She yawns.
Paces.
Memorizes a tiny epiphany that the funeral, for a woman she never knew, will make her forget. They are three, talking and talking too loudly.
And then, M and D appear, and though all is about to collapse, M’s blond enormity holds her tight.
She is so so silent.