T H E T U S C A R O R A R E V I E W 2 0 2 2 1 3 The Matriarch J O S E P H I N E R E N N We stand beneath the open sky as the pastor commences his eulogy. God begins to cry. His tears flow through the clouds and shower us with melancholy. The pastor tells tales of our great grandmother in youth and in happiness, but I focus on the approaching thunder more than his words. In the distance is an oak tree on the side of the cemetery path. Its branches sweep above the darkened gravel and embrace all who walk beneath it in shadow. My great grandmother had a tree like that in her backyard. I used to climb it when I was little, scraping my knees bloodied and raw in the process. I won’t be able to see that tree again. The land will be gone soon, the farms sold off to the city. One day I’ll see her again, in the kingdom of the Lord. But that tree will wither and die without a resting place beyond the pearly gates. Hot tears well in my eyes and I absorb the scene around me; my dad is crying openly and my mother is staring at her black shoes. In my arms, my baby is resting against my bosom, whining but unaware that she lost her great great grandmother last week. My cousin is fiddling nervously with the strap of her funeral dress. Her silent tears disappear into the earth. My aunts are wailing as they stare emptily at the casket of their grandmother. My grandmother is clutching my grandfather as distant relatives place wilted white roses on his mother’s coffin. Generations weep in unison for the loss of the matriarch.
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