The black wooden casket drew attention inside the white painted walls. The curtains were drawn apart and the wide open door seemed welcoming. The lit candles beside the coffin danced along with the sweeping breeze as if inviting him to see his long lost mother.
She had abandoned them when he was barely eight years old. And because of her absence, he had seen how his father withdrawn himself from every new morning. He missed a mother who used to prepare their breakfast. For without her, he became subjected to the sympathy of people. Even in school, he was a recluse. He retained the same childish naughtiness in school. The teacher reprimanded him of his frequent absences. He had a hard time dealing with his classmates for they throw him with scorned looks as if they dreaded the person, he was. Then they were informed about her death. All those years, she was at her parent’s home. She had cut herself from them.
They’ve exchanged goodbyes with his mother’s relatives. He heard what his father had said, that he has a class tommorow and because of this they couldn’t stay til the burial. He knew his father had lied. He was suspended from class because of a fight he had with a classmate.
The long walk was tiresome. His father stooped to brush dust off his leather shoes and called him for a rest. He leaned himself on a tree’s trunk and felt a sting on his back. He remembered that he had his mother’s scissors inside. She used it with her sewing then. He decided to bring it back to her but he wasn’t able to.
He looked at his father who stood behind the bush. He heard him sob.
The tarnished red scissors was reminded them still of her, of the memories both of them grieve about.
It was Sunday not a day but rather a gap between two other days. The traffic was light, only a few cars were out on the streets. Trickles of sweat rolled down his cheeks and his hands were tense on the stirring wheel. A blue car manuevered past him.
