One Last Miracle [complete]

XXXII

XXXII

Churches are supposed to be holy. The word of God is supposed to be a calming presence. It's never made sense to me the reason why funerals take place at a church—because they're anything but calming or holy.

Sitting in the front row of the pew, I grit my teeth, trying my hardest not to tears start—because once that happens, they won't stop for anyone. On the small monitor in the corner, photos of Jeremy and James flashing on the screen. Behind me, sit mum, dad and Rick. I'm supposed to be there too: the front row only meant to be for immediate family. Except before I could even sit with mum and dad, James' mum intervened had steered me to the front row to sit next to her. I'd gone without complaint.

I wear black, as per the occasion. But no one sees the rainbow stocking I cut wrapped around my upper thigh.

St Vincent's church is beautiful, holding ceremonies every Sunday morning. I've never been inside before, never attended a ceremony, but it's as beautiful as they say. It's large and spacious, a glass dome at the top of the building. The front of the church has a glass mural depicting religious figures. Beside all that it's just clean white walls. Four pillars line the front of the church, a few metres in front of the first row; two on both sides of the edges of the room so they don't restrict the view. They're cut with white stone. There's a dais up the front, just three small steps to get up. On it, sits two coffins, one with a photo of James and the other of Jordon.

Both are decorated with flowers upon flowers. None of which are mine, because I'm too scared to even approach. My shaky legs barely got me to my seat.

Beside me, James' mum clutches my hand, the grip so tight it's beginning to cut off circulation.

The priest clears his throat, tapping his hand on the podium that's next to the coffins. "Welcome all, to this sombre occasion. Today we gather not to mourn the loss of two lives taken too soon, but to celebrate the lives they lead, the memories they leave behind. Now, if you'd all take out the brochures you were given, when you entered..."

I reach underneath my black skirt to grab the brochure I'd been sitting on. I flip it open to the front page, blinking to make out of the words. Beautiful and ornate, the paper is, the font curling.

It's only another sign of how badly people need to bring light to funerals.

"Now, if you'd all flick to page three and stand as we read A Time for Everything from Ecclesiastes 3."

Everyone stands, and I follow suit, legs shaking. Dad places his hand on my shoulder, squeezing lightly. I reach back for mum's hand with my free one.

The Priests' voice rings out, loud and clear, as he looks onto a piece of paper, though I barely hear the words.

"For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven:

A time to be born, and a time to die:

A time to plant, and a time to pluck what is planted;

A time to break down, and a time to build up;

A time to weep, and a time to laugh:

A time to mourn, and a time to dance:

For everything there is a season, and a time for everything under heaven."

When he's finished reading, he murmurs, "Amen."

Though the room echoes it back, I can't—because right now the last thing I want to do is acknowledge God. I don't sit again as much as my legs give out underneath me.