I remember the funeral of Lord Ashiro-han's sixth wife very clearly. My mother had taken me, because Father had been home ill, and could not risk standing outside in the cold, wet air while he was ill. I looked up at Mother, trying to spot a glimpse of her face behind the wood mask she wore. I could barely see through my mask, and, despite the chill of the late autumn, my face was growing uncomfortably hot. The drums from the rooftops of the city beat a single note repeatedly in unison, their sound carrying through the still air. I wanted to take off my mask, but to do so would be a sacrilege to the ceremony, and I would risk having the soul of the deceased wife try and seize my little body instead of moving on to Agi-a like all souls are …show more content…
"That is no way to speak at a funeral." "But Mother, surely he would not have so many wives if he knew they were all to die." Mother made a sign with her fingers—the first two fingers of her left hand crossed, and the tip of the first finger of her right hand touching them—that immediately silenced me. To speak under the summon of the spirit of silence would get me in much trouble. I lowered my head, looking back over the railing of the balcony at the heads of the peasants in the street below, clutching the lilies I had to my breast. They all wore their masks, the blank pieces of wood marking their status, making it seem like an army of faceless ghosts had invaded my home city. The seven priest of our city's temple led the procession; each one carried a lantern on a long pole that they held above their heads, humming as they prepared to sing the Guiding Song. Mother made the sign over my head—reversing the fingers—to rid the spirit of silence so I could sing. I had only been to two funerals in my life—my mother's mother, and my father's father—but I knew the words of the Guiding Song well enough to sing as the priests opened their mouths and began the …show more content…
A great wave of sadness hit me, so strong I fell to my knees, dropping the lilies. I heard a sound from Mother; something like a gasp. I looked back at her and Yoshi, wondering if they had felt the overpowering sadness like I had, but they were still standing, Mother reaching for me to help me up. I got up myself, weak from the feeling, gathering the lilies back into my hands. I gasped myself as I rose, seeing the procession below. Lord Ashiro-han was looking up as he approached the building from which my family and I watched the funeral. As I stared, not bowing, my eyes instead rooted to the snarling bronze mask that Lord Ashiro-han wore, a shiver ran through me when I realized that he was staring at me. The lilies slipped through my fingers once more, and I struggled to catch them, but they drifted down over the edge of the balcony. Lord Ashiro-han reached out a hand and caught one, his face still raised to mine. I clutched the railing as I watched him pause for a moment, tucking the lily into the cord that held his armor together, over his heart. He looked at me one last time before facing ahead and continuing on his walk to the temple. "Mother, he looked at me!" I cried. "Lower your voice," Mother
this was to be the last. Throughout the procession there are mournful faces, but one
The funeral was supposed to be a family affair. She had not wanted to invite so many people, most of them strangers to her, to be there at the moment she said goodbye. Yet, she was not the only person who had a right to his last moments above the earth, it seemed. Everyone, from the family who knew nothing of the anguish he had suffered in his last years, to the colleagues who saw him every day but hadn’t actually seen him, to the long-lost friends and passing acquaintances who were surprised to find that he was married, let alone dead, wanted to have a last chance to gaze upon him in his open coffin and say goodbye.
A mother’s love is said to have power beyond this world. This is seen throughout popular culture as well. For example, in Harry Potter, Harry is protected from Voldemort’s spells at birth by the power of his mother’s love. But can a mother’s love be heard, felt, and embraced in the physical world, even after a mother has passed away? In Stephen Wagner’s article “Mothers' Messages from Beyond,” Wagner writes about the accounts of real people who claim they have felt the presence of their mother’s in some way after their passing. The article includes five personal accounts from other people, along with Wagner’s own personal experience. The supernatural accounts vary anywhere from hearing whispers, seeing apparitions, and even seeing the deceased in one’s dreams. Through the use of emotional stories, pathos, and personal experience, Stephen Wagner tells the stories of mothers reaching out to their children beyond the grave in “Mothers' Messages from Beyond,” to convey a message that even in death, a mother’s loving words can be felt by the living.
I rushed out of the bedroom confused. I began to realize what was going on. I ran to where I last saw her and she was not there. Never before I felt my heart sank. My eyes filled with tears. I dropped to my knees and felt the cold white tile she last swept and mopped for my family. I look up and around seeing picture frames of of her kids, grandchildren, and great grandchildren smiling. I turn my head to the right and see the that little statue of the Virgin Mary, the last gift we gave her. I began to cry and walked to my mother hugging her. My father walked dreadfully inside the house. He had rushed my great grandmother to the hospital but time has not on his side. She had a bad heart and was not taking her medication. Later that morning, many people I have never seen before came by to pray. I wandered why this had to happen to her. So much grief and sadness came upon
Deaths were a form of social event, when families and loved ones would gather around the bed of the dying, offering emotional support and comfort. Myth, religion, and tradition would combine to give the event deeper meaning and ease the transition for all involved. The one who was dying was confident in knowing what lay behind the veil of death, thanks to religious faith or tradition. His or her community held fast to the sense of community, drawing strength from social ties and beliefs. (“Taboos and Social Stigma - Rituals, Body, Life, History, Time, Person, Human, Traditional Views of Death Give Way to New Perceptions" 1)
Tien Minh and I walked for a while and talked about different things until we heard a loud sound and people screaming in the distance. As we stood there, I wondered who those screams came from. Was it my mother? The other women and children working in the rice field? Out of fear, I ran back toward the village leaving Tien Minh behind. Once I neared the village, I noticed it was completely destroyed by some sort of explosion. The huts were no longer standing but rather deracinated from the ground below them and some villagers laid unconscious, or dead, while others huddled together in disbelief. Suddenly, another explosion occurred only a short distance away from me. I fell to the ground. My ears were ringing from the sound of what I then realized was a bomb. When I regained my senses, I saw that the villagers were running past me in a frantic fashion. Out of panic, I tried to run, but my entire body was covered in a thick, sticky substance that caused my skin to burn profusely. Because I couldn’t endure the pain, I stripped off my cotton shorts and tank top and began running. Fear and panic caused me to run faster, fast enough to where I caught up to Tien Minh who was a short distance ahead of me. As I ran, I thought of the change of clothes I wished I had. Then I thought of my mother. I told her I’d be back, but I wasn’t sure that I
I looked around at everyone in the room and saw the sorrow in their eyes. My eyes first fell on my grandmother, usually the beacon of strength in our family. My grandmother looked as if she had been crying for a very long period of time. Her face looked more wrinkled than before underneath the wild, white hair atop her head. The face of this once youthful person now looked like a grape that had been dried in the sun to become a raisin. Her hair looked like it had not been brushed since the previous day as if created from high wispy clouds on a bright sunny day.
I had only to close my eyes to hear the rumbling of the wagons in the dark, and to be again overcome by that obliterating strangeness. The feelings of that night were so near that I could reach out and touch them with my hand… Whatever we had missed, we possessed together the precious, the incommunicable past. (170)
“It was a large, beautiful room, rich and picturesque in the soft, dim light which the maid had turned low. She went and stood at an open window and looked out upon the deep tangle of the garden below. All the mystery and witchery of the night seemed to have gathered there amid the perfumes and the dusky and tortuous outlines of flowers and foliage. She was seeking herself and finding herself in just such sweet half-darkness which met her moods. But the voices were not soothing that came to her from the darkness and the sky above and the stars. They jeered and sounded mourning notes without promise, devoid even of hope. She turned back into the room and began to walk to and fro, down its whole length, without stopping, without resting. She carried in her hands a thin handkerchief, which she tore into ribbons, rolled into a ball, and flung from her. Once she stopped, and taking off her wedding ring, flung it upon the carpet. When she saw it lying there she stamped her heel upon it, striving to crush it. But her small boot heel did not make an indenture, not a mark upon the glittering circlet.
He turned his head toward me and peered at me through swollen eyes. “I begged her not to go with him,” he said quietly. “Do you hear me, I begged her!”
... funeral home and prepared to walk her out to her grave. The morticians loaded my aunt into the hearse. Everyone was walking behind the hearse until we reached her plot. My uncles and Dad pulled her out of the vehicle onto the bands for the funeral directors to lower her into the ground. Then the priest for what felt like an hour of words and gave the signal to lower her into the ground. While they were doing that, the priest passed out roses. We all threw the roses onto the burial vault and said our goodbyes and went home. When we got home we reflected on the times we had.
Vibrant harbingers, lulled by the silent sea breeze, serenade the ears of pedestrians with euphonious melodies foretelling life after death. Unseen by the naked eyes, they dance within the heathers that mark the entrance to the afterlife. Amongst the names of those who have perished in their soliloquies, was dear Aunt Helen who placed a ban of silence when she passed. Each person in her neighborhood subdued by the silence and imprisoned in their homes. Fortunately, there was one nameless fellow who had yet to perish.
The eerie voices of countless spirits, the bells that clattered behind some of them, and the clash of machetes as they ran forwards and background and saluted one another, sent tremors of fear into every heart. For the first time in living memory the sacred bullroarer was heard in broad daylight.” (Achebe
We all remember these grey gloomy days filled with a feeling of despair that saddens the heart from top to bottom. Even though, there may be joy in one’s heart, the atmosphere turns the soul cold and inert. Autumn is the nest of this particular type of days despite its hidden beauty. The sun seems foreign, and the nights are darker than usual enveloped by a thrill that generates chills to travel through the spine leaving you with a feeling of insecurity. Nevertheless, the thinnest of light will always shine through the deepest darkness; in fact, darkness amplifies the beauty and intensity of a sparkle. There I found myself trapped within the four walls of my house, all alone, surrounded by the viscosity of this type of day. I could hear some horrifying voices going through my mind led by unappealing suicidal thought. Boredom had me encaged, completely at its mercy. I needed to go far away, and escape from this morbid house which was wearing me down to the grave. Hope was purely what I was seeking in the middle of the city. Outside, the air was heavy. No beautifully rounded clouds, nor sunrays where available to be admired through the thick grey coat formed by the mist embedded in the streets. Though, I felt quite relieved to notice that I was not alone to feel that emptiness inside myself as I was trying to engage merchant who shown similar “symptoms” of my condition. The atmosphere definitely had a contagious effect spreading through the hearts of every pedestrian that day. Very quickly, what seemed to be comforting me at first, turned out to be deepening me in solitude. In the city park, walking ahead of me, I saw a little boy who had long hair attached with a black bandana.
I was alone, and no one knew who I was. I was too far away from home to go to my friend’s ceremony.