The clouds are like dark marble on black satin, blocking the king of heat from reaching the sky. Silence caresses the room like a cool summer breeze.
The church clock languidly ticks as we find comfort in dark assortment of clothes in the full splendor of sorrow.
My factitious face of despair maps many old memories. Unexpectedly, it does not take long before I begin to laugh. I mean to cry but I can’t stop laughing.
My mother’s hand cracks my face with a slap and I fall over. Snapping back creates a horrible illusion and now my visual is off.
I try to find my seat causing a lot of commotion. I feel a light touch that helps me up and tries to whisper to my mother to allow him to talk to me, it’s a man.
To my surprise, he asks me if I intended to cry than to laugh and I nod my head agreeably. But he realizes I’m not looking directly at him, so he asks if I can see him.
I tell him I was, before my mother hit me, but now I can’t. He takes a step back and I can hear faint voices of my mother and the strange voice.
‘I’m a doctor. I’ll need to take your daughter to the hospital for some tests. It’s possible she is suffering from Pseudobulbar Affect which is a condition of inappropriate laughter or crying due to a brain injury or neurological conditions like dementia. I’m sorry for the medical terms but there is treatment that can work if done sooner.’
I break out in a cold sweat. This is why I never go to funerals.
Happy Reading 💚
Image Credits to: Jilbert Ebrahimi