The Last Sunday
The rain had been falling all morning, a thin, relentless mist that made the streets of the old town look like they were smeared with watercolor. I stood at the back of St. Catherine’s, the wooden pews slick with condensation, and watched the funeral director adjust the lilies on the altar. The scent of fresh roses mixed with the faint, stale smell of incense that never quite burned out. My hands were clenched around a damp handkerchief, the edge frayed from years of use. Somewhere behind me, the organist pressed a key and a low chord trembled through the nave, as if the building itself were sighing.
Laura’s casket was a polished oak box, its lid sealed shut, a thin veil of black satin draped over it. The lid bore a single brass plaque with her name, her birth year, and the date of her death—June twenty‑third, two thousand twenty‑four. I could see the faint reflection of the stained‑glass windows in the polished surface, the blue and ruby shards of Saint Michael’s battle with the dragon. I wanted to reach out, to touch it, to feel the wood, to hear the hollow thud of my own heartbeat against it.
“Antonio?” a voice called, soft and distant. I turned. My sister‑in‑law, Marta, stood a few rows ahead, her hair damp, her eyes red. She mouthed a word I could not hear, then turned away, wiping tears with the back of her hand. The crowd shifted, murmuring prayers, the rustle of paper programs, the occasional cough.
I had spent the past twelve years watching Laura grow from a squealing infant into a woman who could hold her own in a boardroom. After my wife—her mother—died in a car accident when Laura was ten, I had taken on two jobs, the night shift at the factory and mornings at the grocery, just to keep the lights on and to pay for her tuition. When she married Daniel, I had felt a strange relief, a hope that perhaps I could finally lay down the weight of being the sole parent.
Daniel arrived at the church in a charcoal suit that fit him like a second skin. He wore a thin black tie, his hair slicked back, his eyes—always a little too bright—glazed over the mourners as if he were scanning a crowd for a particular face. He shook hands, offered condolences, and seemed to glide through the sorrow like a spectator at a performance.
When the minister lifted the veil and the organ swelled, the world narrowed to a single, oppressive point of grief. I could hear my own breathing, the tremor in my throat, the distant thud of a funeral march outside. I tried to picture Laura’s laugh, the way she would toss her hair when she was nervous, the way she used to say “I’m fine” when she wasn’t. The image flickered and died, as if the candle beside the casket had been snuffed.
After the service, people began to file out, their umbrellas opening like umbrellas in a storm. I lingered, feeling the weight of my coat, the cold seep into my bones. I watched Daniel stand by the exit, his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed on the ground.
