| Biographical Non-Fiction posted April 19, 2021 |
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The day after: widow and I reminisce
Private Memorial Service
by Elizabeth Emerald
Yesterday, my friend Gale held a memorial service for her husband, Rick, whom she'd found dead in bed ten days ago.
On account of Corona, only one hundred people would be permitted to attend; the rest would be relegated to the "Zoom Room."
When I phoned the church Thursday to reserve a spot, I was informed that they were at capacity; I declined the proffered virtual alternative.
This afternoon, I called Gale to apologize for my absence, to which she responded with regrets in my behalf: As it turned out, many of those who'd reserved a seat failed to show up and the B-Listers were thus ushered into the main event.
After we finished expressing our mutual disappointment, I segued to the primary purpose for my call, which was to invite Gale to supper tonight, lunch tomorrow, supper tomorrow, etc., etc., ... any and all of the above.
First up was supper tonight. I served an ad hoc "stewp" with a plate of (over)toasted Indian naan bread.
After we'd eaten, Gale showed me (to-be-assembled) scrapbook photo collages of her and Rick. They spanned the dozen years of their marriage, from honeymoon in Florida to family reunions to Caribbean vacations.
Next, Gale presented a memorial pamphlet, copies of which had been distributed to the audience.
Included were seven touching tributes to Rick, contributed by those who'd treasured his friendship, for myriad reasons, all eloquently expressed.
My eyes grew ever more moist as I read; I was blindsided by my surge of emotion and felt ashamed of my harsh feelings toward Rick.
My self-castigation was mitigated by memories of Rick's rudeness, in particular toward his wife, to whom he'd afterward apologize profusely ... (Return to square one.)
My remorse was reactivated when I reminded myself of the reason for Rick's short-temper and erratic behavior; he'd suffered severe brain damage at age 17, when he'd been beaten into a 9-month coma by a six-pack of thugs.
And so, I am left with a sense of unease, regardless of which I will do my best to support Gale in her mourning the man for whom, unlike me, she felt unremitting compassion.
Yesterday, my friend Gale held a memorial service for her husband, Rick, whom she'd found dead in bed ten days ago.
On account of Corona, only one hundred people would be permitted to attend; the rest would be relegated to the "Zoom Room."
When I phoned the church Thursday to reserve a spot, I was informed that they were at capacity; I declined the proffered virtual alternative.
This afternoon, I called Gale to apologize for my absence, to which she responded with regrets in my behalf: As it turned out, many of those who'd reserved a seat failed to show up and the B-Listers were thus ushered into the main event.
After we finished expressing our mutual disappointment, I segued to the primary purpose for my call, which was to invite Gale to supper tonight, lunch tomorrow, supper tomorrow, etc., etc., ... any and all of the above.
First up was supper tonight. I served an ad hoc "stewp" with a plate of (over)toasted Indian naan bread.
After we'd eaten, Gale showed me (to-be-assembled) scrapbook photo collages of her and Rick. They spanned the dozen years of their marriage, from honeymoon in Florida to family reunions to Caribbean vacations.
Next, Gale presented a memorial pamphlet, copies of which had been distributed to the audience.
Included were seven touching tributes to Rick, contributed by those who'd treasured his friendship, for myriad reasons, all eloquently expressed.
My eyes grew ever more moist as I read; I was blindsided by my surge of emotion and felt ashamed of my harsh feelings toward Rick.
My self-castigation was mitigated by memories of Rick's rudeness, in particular toward his wife, to whom he'd afterward apologize profusely ... (Return to square one.)
My remorse was reactivated when I reminded myself of the reason for Rick's short-temper and erratic behavior; he'd suffered severe brain damage at age 17, when he'd been beaten into a 9-month coma by a six-pack of thugs.
And so, I am left with a sense of unease, regardless of which I will do my best to support Gale in her mourning the man for whom, unlike me, she felt unremitting compassion.
On account of Corona, only one hundred people would be permitted to attend; the rest would be relegated to the "Zoom Room."
When I phoned the church Thursday to reserve a spot, I was informed that they were at capacity; I declined the proffered virtual alternative.
This afternoon, I called Gale to apologize for my absence, to which she responded with regrets in my behalf: As it turned out, many of those who'd reserved a seat failed to show up and the B-Listers were thus ushered into the main event.
After we finished expressing our mutual disappointment, I segued to the primary purpose for my call, which was to invite Gale to supper tonight, lunch tomorrow, supper tomorrow, etc., etc., ... any and all of the above.
First up was supper tonight. I served an ad hoc "stewp" with a plate of (over)toasted Indian naan bread.
After we'd eaten, Gale showed me (to-be-assembled) scrapbook photo collages of her and Rick. They spanned the dozen years of their marriage, from honeymoon in Florida to family reunions to Caribbean vacations.
Next, Gale presented a memorial pamphlet, copies of which had been distributed to the audience.
Included were seven touching tributes to Rick, contributed by those who'd treasured his friendship, for myriad reasons, all eloquently expressed.
My eyes grew ever more moist as I read; I was blindsided by my surge of emotion and felt ashamed of my harsh feelings toward Rick.
My self-castigation was mitigated by memories of Rick's rudeness, in particular toward his wife, to whom he'd afterward apologize profusely ... (Return to square one.)
My remorse was reactivated when I reminded myself of the reason for Rick's short-temper and erratic behavior; he'd suffered severe brain damage at age 17, when he'd been beaten into a 9-month coma by a six-pack of thugs.
And so, I am left with a sense of unease, regardless of which I will do my best to support Gale in her mourning the man for whom, unlike me, she felt unremitting compassion.
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