The sun tried its best to pierce its way through the heavy clouds that were brooding over the graveyard. Starlings argued in the bare branches of the tree nearby, an irreverent yet timely reminder of life. A sudden gust of wind blew across the line of children, ruffling their hair. One of the boys absent-mindedly ran his fingers through his fringe, then scuffed at the gravel with the point of his shoe.
“Where shall we put it?” The girls moved forward and gently moved two wreaths apart to make room for the plant. Crouching down, they slid the flower-pot on to the tomb, then placed the handwritten card in the leaves and stepped back, feet crunching on the gravel.
Six pairs of eyes looked down at sneaker-covered feet, then up towards the soft, grey, impenetrable sky. I did likewise – like them, I could not bring myself to focus on the sea of white flowers before me. How I wished the sky had been blue. How I wished that the sky had brought more hope that this.
The momentary silence was uncomfortable. Eleven-year-olds are never this silent, and one of the boys answered their unspoken need to justify it by clearing his throat and quietly saying, “I guess it’s time for a minute of silence”. Heads nodded, hands were clasped together.
Silence ensued. The silence of six children contemplating another child’s grave is unlike any other. It was at this moment that I understood the concept of a “resounding” silence; by definition, silence is devoid of noise, yet silence can speak volumes. The children’s silence communicated so much – feelings and emotions tumbled out of that silence and seeped into me through each and every pore.
The silence spoke. It said that the children had taken yet another step into the hard reality of life, a reality that we parents try to protect them from for as long as we can. It explained that their rounded, pre-teen shoulders were feeling the unfamiliar weight of sadness. The silence reassured me, telling me that they were more mature and more resilient than I had imagined. It was a sad silence that expressed their feelings for the friend who had lost his little brother. It was an angry silence that screamed that life was unfair. It was a frightened silence that asked fate to spare them from the same experience in the future. And a comforting silence that wrapped itself around them and embraced their friendship.
In this roaring silence, a tiny, isolated sound caught my attention. Then another. Light, crisp, clean, almost imperceptible. I would never have heard this sound without the silence. The children noticed the sound too, and their eyes sought its source. The sky had stopped brooding, the tension had disappeared. The first raindrops were falling gently on the ribbons decorating the wreaths.
A voice interrupted the silence. “Ok, I think that’s enough. Wow, it felt like ten minutes.” A nervous giggle rippled through the group. Then they moved. Shoulders were squared, their faces cleared, and determined expressions replaced the worry that had been there seconds before. “Right. Where are we taking him to cheer him up?”
The silence was over.
Post written in response to the Weekly Writing Challenge: the sound of silence.
Beautiful…
Thanks, Susie. I’m still feeling all wobbly over a week later.
Hope you’re doing well, I don’t feel like we have spoken in ages!
I’m fine, ta – hope you’re back in fine fettle 🙂
I’m getting there… Nothing a week or two wont sort out!
Wow MM, I felt very emotional reading that, it was truly touching xx
Thanks, Miss flowery wellies. It was one of those experiences you don’t forget in a hurry.
I’m very bad at being sad….I either laugh, as a nervous reaction, or cry. So I try not to go there.
I’m no good in emotional situations at all – I’m a real sponge, and I soak up all the sadness. This time I managed to keep a lid on my emotions because the kids did such a good job themselves. I was the only grown-up who was available to take them that day, so I had to be a tough cookie.
Wonderful.
Thank you.
Wow what a share… could feel the silence over here too…. brilliant writing…
Uh-oh. The world’s going to go quiet, and it’ll be all my fault.
Best thing you have written.
Thanks, Dad. *Joanna beams with happiness* Childish need for parental approval, check. 😀
Children are amazing! A beautiful narrative MM.
I was amazed by their reaction; they seemed so grown-up and so little, all at the same time…
beautiful and powerful piece of writing !
Thank you, Duncan!
Nicely done. You have such a way with words. You have power to make so many feel so much. way to capture the moment.
Thank you, Munchkin Mum 🙂
Wow – that is really a tough thing to deal with. Unfortunately I went through this twice with my oldest son and I remember the intensity. Beautifully written.
Oh dear, I’m sorry 😦 It’s an awful thing to deal with, and the death of a child just doesn’t make sense in the big scheme of things. We can’t accept it as adults, so seeing children deal with in such a dignified way was a real eye-opener.
I couldn’t agree more 😦
Great writing, MM. I love the way you move from the big, momentous sadness to the tiny sound of rain drops. You capture the sadness of the occasion, but the resilience and hope of youth. 🙂
I think your comment is better than the post itself 🙂 You should be reviewing books for the Guardian with critiques like that! Maybe we could do it together – a kind of Merlot bottle-clutching caped crusader duo, like Ab Fab only better?
LOL you can tell I’ve been reviewing a lot lately? I’m part of the 100 Word Challenge for school-children around the world. I review 10 pieces per week. 🙂
I don’t think we’re pretentious enough for the Guardian, but I like the name of the Merlot Duo caped crusaders determined to rid the world of bottled bile and bollocks! 🙂
I’ve just spat coffee all over my computer keyboard. 🙂
😀
Beautifully expressed. Made me cry. Reassuring about the youth of today.
Dont cry or I’ll cry. Not a pretty sight, I can tell y ou 🙂
Love the flow of time through this, effortless and bringing out the narrative. Enjoyed reading.
Welcome to the blog 🙂 Thank you – I’m glad you enjoyed it!
Wow… I got goosebumps reading that. Beautifully written.
Thank you 🙂 Glad to see you’re out and about for a wander in the blogosphere. Have you tried out my supermarket baby tip?
Yeah, the blog world has taken a bit of a back seat lately, I’ve been too busy making old ladies swoon in the frozen food aisle!
Good boy 😀
Aw, that was just beautiful. Very emotional and powerful writing.
Thank you, cupcake. You’re lucky I didn’t put a picture of my face doing a concertina impression as I tried to keep a lid on my emotions.
Oh gosh, I’m so relieved. I thought it was real.
And of course it is because this happens every day and, for all I know, may have truly happened like this.
I am a little raw having just come from another blogger whose brother died recently. Death is often a beast but it leaves much in its wake – of all sorts.
Now I read the comments and see that it was a real-life episode. Beautifully conveyed, MM.
I deliberately wrote it in a way that could have been interpreted as fiction. Sadly, though, it happened ten days ago – as you say, death leaves other things in its wake than sorrow, if you look carefully. Bigs hugs to you, Miss Cuttlefish xx
🙂
That was a powerfully evocative and beautiful piece of writing, MM. You captured the children’s reaction perfectly, as I remember from the time I took DD to a classmate’s funeral when she was just a teenager. You are are a writer, you know, not just a blogger.
*MM blushes and bunny hops around the room in glee*
Thank you 😀
I am afraid to ask what happened but I wish the innocence of youth would prevail.
I do too, Katt. A little boy lost his battle with cancer at the age of four – it’s something that should never happen.
Oh that is so sad. Hard to say more isn’t it as a mother…..