Page 56 - Reason To Sing by Kelita Haverland

Reason To Sing

Vian and I hold hands as we return to our mother. The
wind is picking up. The air brisker, as the day begins to wane.
Surely winter is on its way. I am so cold. Nervous. Weak. The
chill of death pierces. I am paralyzed. How will I ever walk
again? Death, this death, icy and harsh, has the power to suck
the life out of my very being.
After the excruciatingly long drive back to the church we
gather in the basement for the luncheon provided by the church
ladies. Little crustless triangle white bread sandwiches filled
with egg salad, tuna and that funny luncheon meat spread, with
bits of pickle. Trays of celery, carrots and sweet mixed pickles
- the ones with the bright yellow cauliflower that don’t taste
anything like cauliflower. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee.
It’s just an old church basement - the one where I attended
Sunday school and learned the stories of the Bible and where
I made my acting debut – but the coffee makes it feel warm
and welcoming. There are plenty of homemade sweets laid
out on heavy crystal plates. Lots of brownies, Nanaimo bars,
lemon squares and my very favorite - butter tarts with walnuts.
Normally I would dive right in but today I am without an
appetite.
I stand close by Mommy’s side as the crowd begins to thin.
I notice a very tall, dark, clean-cut man, coming from the other
side of the room. I know he is someone from Daddy’s side.
I think he is a cousin who has traveled from the States for
the funeral. I can almost read my mother’s mind. I know what
she must be thinking. How nice, somebody from Ivan’s side of the
family is finally going to come over and talk to me.
She smiles and offers her hand. Before she can utter his
name, he abruptly cuts her off. “Vilda, I hope you rot in hell!”
Then he turns and walks away.
I am mortified for my poor Mommy. Afraid she might

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