Disenfranchised grief-pt. 3

A short story of disenfranchised grief

The crowd parted, and Lunette got her first glimpse of Papa in the coffin. He looked exactly as Mariah had described. He was himself, and yet not himself at all. Though stiff and pale, the thinning hair at the top of his head was combed to the side as it always was. His big handlebar mustache curled under his nose just like it had always done. Just tall enough to see in, Lucy and Alex peered over the side of the coffin while Frannie buried her face in Lunette’s shoulder. 

Lucy’s three-year-old-voice broke the silence. “Iz dat Papa?”

“Yes,” Mama said.

“Why iz he in’nere?”

Alex grabbed Lucy’s hand. “You remember the day I shot that bird with my slingshot? I made Mama mad cause I killed that bird. You saw it Lucy. One minute it was singing its heart out in the tree, then the next, it was lying dead on the ground. I buried that bird in the backyard and tomorrow we have to bury Papa out at the old town cemetery.”

Lunette thought she was going to suffocate. A few ladies were wiping their eyes with delicate handkerchiefs. The men from Washington stood in uncomfortable silence at the edge of the room. Mama swayed. Congressman Tyler stepped forward to lend Mama his support. 

The Judge sat scowling in the same chair he had claimed that morning, his gnarled fingers grasping the handle of his cane. “You keep that baby quiet,” he growled at Mama. “Show some respect.”

Mrs. Harriet, a widely known busybody, smiled and waved her hand toward the casket. “Children, would you like to kiss your Papa on the cheek?” 

Frannie began to cry. “I don’t want to kiss Papa on the cheek, Mama. He’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead.” 

A bolt of lightning flashed outside the window. 

“You be quiet little girl,” the Judge rasped. “Frances, I told you this was no place for children.” 

Frannie stood as still as a terrified rabbit. Alex cried, and Lucy watched in wide-eyed confusion. Mary B took a deep breath and suddenly shouted, “Da!” Lunette’s eyes darted to Papa. Cold and gray, he lay in silence. He was never going to speak a word to any of them again. He would never see any of them grow up, and worst of all, he had died before Mary B could learn to say Da-Da.

Blind with rage, Lunette thought of the worst word she had ever heard and turned toward the Judge as a thunderclap shook the entire room. “Get out of our house you son-of-a-bitch,” she wanted to say, but the words just wouldn’t come. She wanted to rip apart Mrs. Harriet’s idiotic black hat with the irritating trembling black beads. She wanted to lay down, right there on the floor in front of everybody, and kick and scream until she could kick and scream no longer. Instead, she swallowed her anger and clamped her mouth shut. She wouldn’t shame Mama—or Papa. At least not today.

“Somebody take these children out of here!” the Judge yelled. Rain blew through the windows and several people ran to close the glass.

Congressman Tyler took the Judge by the arm and helped him out of his chair. “I think it might be prudent if folks gave these children a few private moments, don’t you? Refreshments are laid out in the dining room. Why don’t you lead the way Judge Madison?”  

All eyes rested on the Judge’s ugly face. He had no choice but to do as he’d been bid. Lunette watched him slowly lead the crowd of mourners into the dining room.

Together as a family for the last time, Lunette turned to the casket to say the one thing she had been dreading most of all. “Good-bye, Papa. I loved you with all my heart.” Lunette bit the inside of her cheeks so hard, she could taste blood.

“Good-bye” Alex said softly

Lunette picked up Lucy and Mama held Mary B as Frannie began to sob. Mama spoke for them all. “Good-bye, Zander. We will miss you more than we can say.” Though she was crying, Mama’s voice stayed strong and sure. She called for Congressman Tyler. “I want to close the casket.”

“Are you sure? That's usually done in the morning.”

“The people that needed to say good-bye have done so. I want the casket closed.” The Congressman and several other men lifted the lid and set it in place. 

*****

This excerpt from my unpublished book, The Raspberry House, was the only way I could express disenfranchised grief over my father. I went no contact four years ago. I thought it would kill me. There was no funeral, there was no recognition and no one to mourn with me. Only shaming words of judgement. It was horrible. The only place I had to go was the lead character of my book, Lunette Madison; a twelve-year-old girl and her brothers and sisters. All of whom are parts of me.

Disenfranchised grief is a big word with a simple meaning. To deprive of a right or privilege. None of the grown-ups in my story want the children at the wake. Some want them to express grief in a certain way. Others don’t want it expressed at all. That’s how survivors of trauma are treated. The only funeral I got to have was the one I made up in a book.

There are many ways survivors can express disenfranchised grief. I did it by writing. Others may hold a mock service, do an art piece or simply take time away to grieve. Grief comes at us layer by layer. Let it come, recognize it and feel it. Defy trauma because joy is waiting.