THE LITTLE THINGS

 

CHAPTER FIVE

Five Years Later

London, United Kingdom 

St. Peter’s Cathedral

The church of St. Peter stood tall like a tower of grief. Its well-crafted walls told stories of the ancient world. Outside the church, pigeons flocked the old church hovering over the congregation like flying vermin. 

The walls of the church were old and covered with moss, around it they were decorated with all sorts of beautiful flowers from dandelions to hibiscus. Cars were parked outside as the ceremony went along. 

The choir in the church sang hymnals and missals of the Passover feast of Jesus and his resurrection. Their voices echoed through the walls in a low soothing and humming sound.

The clergy were dressed immaculate with black and white vestments, some white like a virgin and some black as night. There heads shaved clean. They all stood over the altar like some acolytes giving a sacrifice to some dark and ominous god. The priest was a well-built Caucasian man, he put on his blurry glasses on and read the final verses from the Bible with great eloquence and precision.

He then proceeded to give a short sermon on the resurrection of Christ Jesus. He did it with great reverence and splendor while looking at the congregation in between the reading and the sermon cutting through them sharp like ice. He seemed warm and benevolent a contrast to how he looked. 

He was pale white with a hooked nose; his skin was old and wrinkly and his hair was white as snow. He hovered both of his hands over the Bible as he gave his great speech in a well demeanor filled with confidence.

The walls of the cathedral were covered with monuments of the Virgin Mother Mary and Christ Jesus towering over the congregation like silent sentinels. They seemed to have some sort of life. They looked as if they were breathing from a distant. Their eyes sharp as steel. 

At the top of the cathedral was a beautifully painted picture of Michael the Archangel towering over a devil like creature piercing his heart with a spear. His hair golden brown adorned with bright and shiny armor while the daemon was covered in satin red with hooves on his head – a grotesque sight.

On the windows were hand crafted key moments of Jesus Christ. Each window told the story of Christ, His birth, His suffering, His end. Even the Son of God had surrendered to death. How then, Sheldon thought bitterly, could his mother ever have been spared?

On the dais rested the coffin. His mother, dressed in flowing white. Her folded hands clutched a purple rosary, beads glimmering faintly beneath the lantern glow. Her eyes were closed as if drifting into a long and dreamless sleep. For a moment he thought his mother was still alive for a micro second.

But she did not move.

Cancer had devoured her from the inside, leaving her weaker each day. She had fought fiercely, clinging to life with trembling hands, until at last she had slipped away into the cold arms of the angel who takes without asking. The bells of the cathedral began to toll. Each toll felt like a nail driven into the coffin, each echo a cruel reminder that the moment was final.

“Go forth,” the priest intoned, his voice echoing against the stone. “The Mass has ended.”

He paused, letting the silence settle like dust.

“May the peace of the Lord be with you.”

The congregation responded in unison; voices heavy, weary:

“And with your spirit.”

They all left the church with their heads hung low and heavy. The tall pallbearers composed of his uncles and close relatives carried the casket to the cemetery. Some of his relatives were crying uncontrollably consoling each other.

Sheldon followed closely, every step a battle against the weight inside his chest. At last, they reached the open grave—a raw wound in the earth, its dark mouth waiting. He wanted to scream. But no words came. Only silence.

The priest appeared again at the foot of the grave, his black vestments stirring faintly in the wind. He opened his book, his hollow voice rising against the gray sky.

“From dust you came,” he read, “and to dust you shall return.”

The first handful of dirt fell, striking the coffin lid with a sound sharper than any bell.

Thud.

A sound that carved itself into Sheldon’s bones.

One by one, mourners stepped forward, dropping their white roses into the grave. The flowers fell silently, their petals brushing wood like whispers. Soon, the coffin was buried in a fragile bed of white.

Sheldon’s hand trembled as he approached. For a long moment he stared into the grave, into the impossible truth. He bent slowly, pressing the rose to his lips before letting it slip from his fingers. It tumbled downward, landing among the others with a soft finality.

The earth would take her now.

And Sheldon, standing on the edge of the abyss and felt as though it might take him too.