The Death Date

chapter thirty-one

Melanie died on December twenty-seventh, and though I had known for months, the news still shook me. Her health had been declining in the days following the Christmas Ball, and she had been checked into hospice soon after. The only reason I knew all of this was because Warner had slipped a note under my apartment door. Even though it made my chest ache, I folded the note and stored it in my bedside table; it let me keep a shred of both Melanie and Warner.

The day before Melanie passed, I stopped by the hospice center. Frail as ever, she was draped in light bedding with sunlight spilling over her form. It gave her some life; her translucent skin was lit from within, and it eased the pain of seeing her in such a way.

She was too weak to talk, and, if I was being honest, so was I. So, I spent the hour seated at her bedside with her hand wrapped in mine as the sunshine continued to mask our fears and sorrow. The golden hour always had that power.

Before I stood to leave – having whispered a choppy, heartfelt goodbye into her ear – she stirred.

"Delia," she muttered. "Don't be afraid to listen, dear."

Sucking in a shallow, jagged breath, I smiled at her one final time. I tore from her room and started weeping the second I was safe inside my car.

Her funeral was scheduled for a week later on the second of January.

The day was brisk. It was still morning, but the chill remained even as the sun lifted into the sky. I had walked the neighbor's dog earlier and was forced to wear a pair of sweats and heavy coat. Now, having slipped into a blue, knee length dress, I grabbed a jacket from my closet on the way out the door. Melanie, I thought, would appreciate a pop of color; it was a true reflection of her.

The small funeral home was packed when I arrived. Cars were jammed into almost every parking spot. I wondered whether I was early and if another funeral was occurring; however, when I walked inside and saw a gleaming picture of Melanie in the center of the quaint space, I felt ashamed. Of course, Melanie, who was so loving and genuine, would be celebrated by this many people.

Stealing a seat near the back, I continued staring at her picture crowned in a delicate flower arrangement.

The picture was recent; her hair was short and gray, her mouth held an easy smile, and her eyes were as crystal clear as ever. It brought me a small comfort to see her this way, to remember her this way, and the strain lessened around my heart as the memories I got to share with her came rushing back. I would always have those.

The pews were filling up quickly; people continued to stream inside the room, and, once the funeral officiant – a woman wearing a black pantsuit and crisp blouse – started speaking, the room settled. It was then I saw Warner seated in the front row, only an eclipse of his face visible, and I wondered how I had missed him before.

The woman greeted the room and proceeded with her speech. A eulogy followed afterwards, and pockets of sniffles sounded throughout the room. It was a nice ceremony, short and sweet, and I felt as though it was what Melanie would have wanted. It wasn't until attendants were invited to share stories or memories on her behalf that I was really beside myself.

People of all different ages approached the front of the room, each telling a personal story about Melanie. Some were sad, some heartwarming, some laugh out loud funny, but each of them had a common theme: she had touched them in a special way. And as the stories continued, most people stating they flew in from Oregon to attend, I wondered if every person had something to tell.

Tears trickled from my eyes as each person continued, no matter if the story was happy or sad. Crying was special in this way; it could happen when at either end of the spectrum. When the last person had spoken, I was overcome with a sudden surge of electricity. With her portrait gleaming, I realized what Melanie had been trying to teach me: life was worth living if only because of the small moments, the moments we left behind.