Stepped Up [COMPLETE]

3

"We come here today to lay to rest the body of Trisha Clare Mayson, wife of Hope Marie Mayson and mother of Elena Trisha Mayson, who she died to bring into this world. There is no other than a mother would sacrifice themselves for." The minister said as he stood next to Trisha's cheap coffin. It pained me that I couldn't afford better for her, but I could only give her a small funeral with people who knew her from the hospital through me. "Trisha's life was short but significant, and she leaves behind a lasting memory of herself in her daughter."

In the melancholysombre ambience of the funeral, the minister, a figure of solace and support, gracefully navigated towards the bucket adorned with a handful of roses. Each bloom, a symbol of love and remembrance, stood poised for those who wished to bid a final farewell in the most tender way possible. The minister's steps were measured, carrying the weight of collective grief, as he selected a solitary rose from the delicate bouquet.

He cradled the flower in his hands with solemn reverence, a fleeting emblem of fragility and enduring beauty. The minister then approached the casket, a vessel of finality that housed the earthly remains of a loved one. With deliberate gentleness, he placed the rose atop the coffin, a silent gesture that transcended words and conveyed a universal sentiment of love and loss.

In that poignant act, the minister wove a delicate thread between the realms of the living and the departed, offering solace to those gathered to bid farewell. The single rose, now a poignant adornment on the casket, bore witness to the collective grief and the enduring legacy of the one who had passed. As it rested there, a symbol of love and remembrance, it served as a quiet testimony to the beauty that lingers even amid sorrow.

"I welcome you all to place a final rose as a farewell to Trisha," The weight of grief pressed heavily against my chest as I rose from my seat, cradling our daughter in my arms. The journey to the podium felt like a solemn pilgrimage, each step echoing with the profound finality of the moment. At the front of the room, the stark reality of the incinerator, concealed behind red curtains, awaited the culmination of a heartbreaking farewell.

Trisha's casket rested on a conveyor belt, a mechanical conduit to an inevitable destiny. Clutched in my trembling hand, a single rose embodied love and a tender farewell. Pressing a kiss onto its petals, I placed the rose delicately on the coffin, a whispered promise echoing through the silence.

"I'll take care of our little girl," I uttered, the words a solemn oath that lingered in the air, a testament to the enduring bond that death could not sever.

Returning to the front row, I watched as those few invited to the intimate gathering approached, each offering a rose in homage to the departed. The collective grief hung palpably in the air, the room draped in the heavy shroud of sorrow.

Then, with a gentle command, the minister initiated the solemn ritual. The red curtains unfurled to reveal the enigmatic void of the incinerator. A peaceful stillness settled over the room as the motorized conveyor belt rumbled to life, setting Trisha's casket into motion. The rose-adorned vessel moved steadily towards the abyss, a visual metaphor for the inevitable passage from life to the unknown.

As the minister spoke the final words, tears blurred my vision. Silent sobs escaped, and grief flowed freely as I witnessed my best friend's earthly vessel recede into the darkness. The curtain closed, marking the poignant conclusion to a chapter of shared laughter, whispered secrets, and irreplaceable camaraderie. In that solitary moment, the heaviness of loss hung in the air, and the echoes of farewell lingered, a tribute to a soul now lost to the shadows.