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    Rain collapses to the clammy, green grass of these lifeless grounds where my beloved rests in a wooden casket drenched in flowers above an endless, dark grave. A never-ending fog of raindrops cloud the distance of marble headstones, and rivers of water flood into the gutters, my tears blend with them. A chilling wind passes through my golden, hair, tickling my neck, but a breeze is no comparison to the loss of a loved one. People standing nearby attire in black and navy blue with tissues wiping their eyes or blowing their runny noses. They hold large umbrellas above their heads, but I stand out -alone- in the crowd of relatives and friends with a dark, frozen face, staring with purple-blue eyes past the closed coffin imagining my husband awakening from a deep sleep. I would smile and embrace him with all my heart not allowing anyone to come within five feet of him, and break him away from this wretched place, proving to myself that he was 100% real. However, as fate washes away any hope, the bin remains locked, and my heart shatters into smaller, unfix-able pieces.

    I wear a black, elegant dress reaching my knees. Patterns and recherché designs wrap around my collar, hem, and sleeves. Modish, black gloves cover my hands and half of my wrist, and black, high heels -fitting too small- crunch my toes. A small, ebon hat with lace and a tiny ribbon rests slightly to the left atop my spiraling golden hair which hangs several inches past my frozen shoulders. This outfit I wear is the one that I wore when I first met my husband 7 years ago, but contrast saying Hello and Good-Bye. They're two opposite things in all nature and languages other than Hawaian.

    In my left hand, I hold a black, open umbrella, and I steadily set my right on my 5 year old daughter's shoulder to stabilize me rather than her. Her eyes, like mine, are fixed on the closed casket that's within reach, and I know what she's thinking. So I bend down so my mouth is a few inches from her ear and I whisper, hoping she'll hear me through the pounding tears of the sky, "It wasn't your fault, Amberly."

    She says nothing. She believes it's her defect -that her warning- wasn't strong enough.

    Her hair is silky straight like her fathers, and her eyes are a dark, bitter brown that can see into the future. She saw her dad's death -every little detail, and she attempted to warn me, but I nor my husband listened to her warning. Afterall, the future constantly changes, but not this time.

    With a gentle squeeze on her shoulder, I stand tall again, and the minister says his last words, "...and may Christopher H. Madison rest in peace."

    Second cousins, close friends, and others I fail to remember by name give sorrow filled nods to me and begin to plod through the mud and rain whispering to one another.

    I glance to the my husbands casket one last time, a tear finally running down my cheek, and I grab my daughter's icy, wet hand and say so quietly that at first I doubt she hears, "Let's go, sweetheart."

    She clasps my waist, tears raining down her cheeks, too. She says nothing, but she doesn't have to, her weeping tells it all.

    What is a widowed mother to do at a time like this? Am I supposed to say something along the lines of He's in a better place or He loved you very much? I don't want to accept my husband's in a beautiful paradise, nor do I want to use the past tense when I speak of him. He belongs in this life with his family. Is it that difficult to understand that I want my Christopher right here, right now?

    I crouch down staring into the moist eyes of my daughter, and I give her a bear hug, tears now etching down from my dead eyes. The both of us at a loss of words.


    The umbrella slips free of my hand, leaving us to the mercy of the frigid raindrops.


    How can anyone settle to live and be happy when the one person you loved so much is there one moment and gone the next? Is it possible to have a lively life after death binds away the one person that held your heart together?


    For what seems like hours, Amberly and I cry on one another's shoulder as equals in our sadness. I can only ask myself if I did enough for Christopher when he was alive. Did I tell him I love him less than I should have? Did I not offer him the best life possible? Is it fair for him to have died, or should I have been in his place?


    The rain stops falling on our drenched heads, and I gaze to my sister Aime, wiping the last of my eyes with my sweater sleeve. She holds an umbrella above us.


    "Lorraine, let's go, honey," she whispers, touching my shoulder.

    I nod and stand up, grabbing ahold of my daughter's hand, "Let's go home," I breathe.

    Aime -like me- is very tall, but her hair is a medium brown and it's naturally curly. Her cheek bones are high, and her eyes are a bright, glistening hazel outlined by long, black eyelashes. Thick lips outline her beautiful, perfectly straight teeth, and her skin is a natural, smooth tan. A perfect model she is.
    Amberly clings to me and we begin to plod through the muddy grave yard toward my midnight black, Volvo V50.


    Aime says to me, "I'll strap Amberly in. You just get into the car." Her French accent make her words break.


    I say nothing, and I can't find any objection so I climb into the back seat, slamming the car door behind me, and I sit next to my daughter's car-seat.


    Amberly stays quiet as Aime buckles her seat belt and shuts the door. I watch as my daughter's eyes trail out the window, eyeing her father's casket. If I had the heart, I'd ask her what she sees, but at a moment like this, my question chokes in my throat.
    My sister closes the drivers side door after settling herself in her seat and turns the keys in the ignition, and my car ignites to life when I can only beg it to be my husband.
    We drive away past hundreds of tombstones with our eyes on the only one that matters. I took her hand and stroke her palm, and I softly say as stable as I can manage, "I love him, too."



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    Folders full of fine print pages slap unto my lawyer's desk. I stare at the unorganized papers saying nothing.

    "I'm sorry for your loss," my attorney Rob Jacobs says casually, sitting down across from me. His face is wrinkled, and he's halfway bald. Thin, smoky hair surrounds the shiny crop of his head, and a crimson scar stretches above his left eyebrow.

    What can I say to him? Oh, it's okay. What a lie! My husband is gone, and not on a vacation. He's dead, and there's nothing on this earth that I can do to bring him back.

    "We all are," Aime replies.
    I glance to my younger sister who seems to overshadow me with her maturity for the first time.

    Mr. Jacobs pushes a copy of the files in front of him, saying, "If you open to page 1, you'll see all of Mr. Madison's information from his name to his birth date to all his insurances. Is this all familiar to you, Ms. Parlett? (Par-LEH)"

    "Mrs. Madison," I correct, glancing to my copy.

    I see him stutter a bit before speaking, "Mhm. To continue, please, turn to page 4."

    I don't move so Aime flips the pages for me.

    "And here is his will," Mr. Jacobs explains, "As you can see, it's all laid out for you. It's pretty self-explai-"

    "What?!" I gasp, jumping out of my chair, my eyes huge as tennis balls, "What's this?!" I point to a name I fail to recognize.

    Aime peers over and says the name aloud, "Sabrina Olsen."

    Panic begins to errupt through my aching veins. Who is this woman?! Certainly, she is no one I'm familiar with. Christopher would tell me about anyone he was including in his will, right?

    I lean closer to the paper and I shriek, "She gets practically everything! The house, all the insurance, and the cars! Who is this woman?!" I scream for answers.

    "Mrs. Madison, calm down. Your husband also wrote a letter," Mr. Jacobs explains, "It might have to deal with some of this."

    In confusion, I shrink into my seat and stare teary eyed at the piece of folded paper Mr. Jacobs passes to me from across the wooden desk. I stutter, but I peel the letter off the table and flip open the creases. In my husband's neat, creative writing, it says:



    Dear Lorraine,

    The day we were wed was the happiest day of my life. Your kiss on my lips after we were pronounced husband and wife was the most memorable peck on the lips, and I love to see you smile and laugh. I'm always happy to know that you're life is the best and such. An amazing woman you are, and that's why I fell in love with you. You had no spell nor trick, it was all you who I came to love.

    However, now 6 years after our weddeing ceremony, I'm a new man with a broader horizon. Though I love seeing you smile and hearing your beautiful laugh, I find myself with someone else. It's not you, it's me. Lorraine, if you'll please understand that I found someone with great passion and spirt, not like you lack any, but this woman is dear to me. What I am saying, Lorraine, is that I love you, but not as my lover.

    I'm sorry to say that by the time you read this letter, I will have already sent the divorce papers. Lorraine, please, forgive me, but I choose a new way to live my life, and I'm sorry that it breaks away our marriage. I want you, too, to find happiness, but without me.

    Sincerely,
    Christopher H. Madison



    I fold the letter, my face frozen in shame and shock. My husband had been cheating on me all this time? I have been sleeping with a two timer. Disgusting! I love this man who was planning to leave me for another, and I get this notice when he's long gone. He's abandone me with barely anything. If he cared and loved me even the tiniest bit, why didn't he leave anything for Amberly? Can someone be this truly heartless? How can anyone betray their family this way?


    "Why?" I whisper, tears crawling down my cheeks.

    Aime touches my shoulder and asks, "Lorraine, what'd the letter say?"

    I pass the letter to her and stare out the office window blankly to two chirping mocking birds in a maple tree. I hear her open the letter, and I wait for the bombs to chime in French.

    "salaud! Comment pouvait-il? (b*****d! How could he?)" Aime gasps, slamming the letter down.

    By now, I'm crying, "I don't know!"

    "Qu'est-ce que votre mari a fait pour vous? (What has your husband done to you)" she beams.

    "I don't know!" I cry.

    "Vous ne savez pas, Lorraine? (You don't know, Lorraine)" Aime questions.

    "Est-ce que cela ressemble à je sais (Does this look like I know)?" I yell, slamming my palms unto the desk, glaring to my angry sister.

    "Settle down," Mr. Jacobs said.

    "Et vous! (And you)" Aime blares, "Tu savais à ce sujet? (You knew about this)"
    He looks to me for a translation.
    "Répondez-moi! (Answer now)" she demands.
    "And you," I translate, my voice barely breaching above a whisper, "You knew about this?"

    "Yes," he sighs, "but I'm not aloud to say more, and I didn't know what was contained in that letter. Your husband, though he is no longer alive, still has his rights."

    "bâtard! (b*****d!)" my sister screached, "Comment avez-vous pu? Cela a déchiré une famille de pièces! C'est cruel! Cruel châtiment! Vous êtes l'ennemi! Comment pouvez-vous dormir la nuit?"

    "How could you!? This has tore a family to pieces! This is cruel! Cruel punishment! You are the evil one! How can you sleep at night?" I translate.

    "Ms. Parlett, may you, please, calm down," Mr. Jacobs begs my sister.

    "Comment puis-je? Il est des gens comme vous qui ne devrait en apprendre davantage sur la famille et de l'amour! Vous avez tous rester ici dans un bureau toute la journée d'essayer de corriger les choses que vous ne sera jamais complètement mis ensemble parce que vous ne connaissez pas les gens!" she bellows furiously.

    "How can I? It is people like you who should just learn more about family and love! You all stick around here in a office all day attempting to fix things that you will never completely put together because you know nothing about people!" I repeat in English as stable as I can.

    "Ms. Parlett, please, do speak English," he says.

    Aime opens her mouth to free some more of her native language speech, but I stand to my feet and grab ahold of her shoulder, "We should go."

    Her head turns to me and she nods.

    "Okay," I say, nodding twice, grabbing a copy Christopher's will saying to my attorney, "I'll read and contemplate these over myself."

    Aime gives Mr. Jacobs one last devils glance whispering in a firey tone, "You can't help people thorugh documents and textbooks." and with her last words released off her thick, glossy lips, she twirls around and stomps to the office door and leaves with me following behind.