"Saying the Last Goodbye" by Meghan Wilson

Saying the Last Goodbye

I sit and wait for the last of the ceremony, the important Mason one my father requested before he passed away at George Washington University Hospital, twirling his Masonic ring around my finger as I try to convince myself that this is not real, just another horrible dream my mind has concocted, playing tricks on me. All of his family and friends have gathered on top of the old coal mine mountain on bitter metal chairs to see him placed in the cold, unforgiving ground.
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” is the only thing I remember being spoken as I stared at my feet - daddy would have love me in a dress (only for him would I subject myself to such femininity). Crimson rose petals are sprinkled on top of the casket, right above a pair of snow white Masonic gloves and an evergreen twig. The men from my father’s lodge gather in a line to shake each family member’s hand and say their blessings.
“I’m sorry” is the only thing spoken from their dry cracked lips and each one of us nods a thank you (what else could we do?) I am afraid to shake their hands. The ring is turned in towards my palm because I am not allowed to wear daddy’s ring, his sacred Masonic ring he gave to me on his death bed before he passed, so I try my best to conceal it and hide it from the young and old men who have come to shake my hand. Five successful shakes and I am almost free. The oldest man is the last to pass through the line, with pale distant eyes and sagging yellow skin he grasps my hand with force and walks on, and as I go to sit down my hand is yanked, twirling me around my arm feeling as though it has just been ripped from its socket. The old man screams, shock rushes over his face and mine. “You cannot wear that! You are a woman!” He shouts at me, spit flying from is lips. Whispers and cries are uttered from the crowd in confusion and disbelief. I can’t believe this man - ruining my father’s funeral all because of a ring. I have disgraced my father, my uncle, and their friends by wearing the ring, yet I cannot remove it from my finger, cannot clasp the ring with shaking hands. The old man repeats himself, louder, angrier, “You cannot wear that ring! You are a woman!” Spit flies from his mouth and finds homage on my cheek. I want to wipe it away but am too afraid to do so. My uncle comes to my side. maybe to rescue me from this live skeleton’s grasp, but instead takes my hand and removes daddy’s precious ring as my heart gets ripped away with it and he walks away.
The funeral is over. People gather flowers then proceed on their way home while I stand motionless clinging to my bare finger, tears silently rolling down my face. I go to sit in the metal chair closest to daddy and his cherry stain casket and the wind blows knocking the remnants of his Masonic funeral on the ground. My heart skips a beat as I scramble to receive the pieces then gently place them once again upon the casket, never removing my hands as the wind blows harder taunting me, The tears flood again, hotter than before and John Hayslette one of daddy’s old hunting buddies come to my side. Taking my shoulders, he whispers that we must go. Sobbing I try to tell him that I can’t leave, that if I do these things in my hands will blow away again. John grabs the birthday beanie baby that someone got for him (nine more days and he would have turned 63) He places the beanie baby on top of the twig, the gloves, and the roses and directs me towards the car with a firm grasp on my shoulders. I look back and wish to run to the casket, run back to daddy, but instead I just say a whispered goodbye as bitter tears streak down my cheeks.