Death, Blood and Prayers

The prayers are at hand

The funeral day was a bit hectic. I was wearing my only black dress. I had been ready for a few hours when my mother finally came to the door and got in the cap and told the driver to drive to the only church in the district. As we arrived I could see some people that I knew and some that I didn’t, had my father really known that many people? I got out of the cap and walked straight into the church, I didn’t feel like talking to anyone about their grief, what about mine then? I sat down and waited for the others to go and sit down too. I looked down at my hands, I had cried so much already it seemed I had no tears left. I looked at the big cross up at the altar and I remember feeling a pair of eyes looking at me. I didn’t think that much about it then, it was first later on after the ceremony that I began to think about what I had felt. The ceremony had been beautiful, the priest spoke of things that my father had done in his short life. And a church choir had sung the most beautiful song I had ever heard. After the ceremony I had been sitting on my chair even after people had left. I was just sitting there, thinking of a prayer.

”Dear God
I truly wish that you hadn't taken my father away from me.
He was so young, and had many years to live still...”
I paused a bit and then heard a voice.

”It's not his fault” the voice sounded like the waves thundering against the cliffs and yet as sweet as honey.

”What do you mean?” I asked the man back, I assumed it was a man.