I am the other woman. Not that I ever wanted to be. It wasn’t a conscious choice; I didn’t just wake up one morning and think, today’s the day I steal a man from his family. But I guess that’s what happened.
I watch the woman and her son from between two trees. The overcast sky is so pale in contrast to the green grounds of the cemetery. She is a very nurturing mother, always placing her hand just so on the boy’s shoulder. She takes off one of her black gloves, fixing the boy’s hair and adjusting the black veil covering her eyes. The boy doesn’t look up much, just stares at his shoes and keeps his hands at his sides. He looks like his mother--all fair and neat--but the slump in his shoulders is so much like his father’s.
His mother stares straight ahead, the hand at her side clutched around a tissue.
I suppose she doesn’t know about me. Maybe she has some idea.
I see a tear fall on her son’s shoulder from beneath her veil and I try to usurp her sorrow, make it my own, feel the same kind of sadness she is feeling right now, but our mourning will never be identical. She has the right to cry for him when I don’t. You’re not allowed to cry over something you’ve lost when you stole it in the first place.
The priest makes the sign of the cross over his chest and the woman steps forward and kneels down to toss dirt into the hole. I can see a run in her tights inching up the back of her calf and I pity her. Even her stockings don’t have the decency to keep it together. She turns her head my way and I duck behind one of the trees, my back pressed against the bark and moss.
The breath catches in my throat as I imagine his body there in a box just a few yards from where I stand. I wonder what suit he’s wearing.
He wouldn’t have cared. He would say something like, “Why the hell would she put me in a thousand dollar suit if it’s just going to get buried? What a waste of suit.”
I can hear the woman and her son’s footsteps as they make their way through the grass to the car. She sniffs and I peek out through the gap between the trees. She has her head down, but the boy is looking straight at me. I quickly pull my head back behind the trees, but it’s too late.
I can hear the boy asking, “Who’s that girl?
The woman sounds confused. “What girl?”
“The girl hiding behind those trees.”
I don’t wait for them to get near enough to see my face. I know she’s seen me before--just once, but that may have been enough. If she saw me now she’d be wondering why I’m at her husband’s funeral.
I book it for the parking lot, my heels catching in the soft grass and dirt. I can hear her calling after me, but I don’t look back.
I watch the woman and her son from between two trees. The overcast sky is so pale in contrast to the green grounds of the cemetery. She is a very nurturing mother, always placing her hand just so on the boy’s shoulder. She takes off one of her black gloves, fixing the boy’s hair and adjusting the black veil covering her eyes. The boy doesn’t look up much, just stares at his shoes and keeps his hands at his sides. He looks like his mother--all fair and neat--but the slump in his shoulders is so much like his father’s.
His mother stares straight ahead, the hand at her side clutched around a tissue.
I suppose she doesn’t know about me. Maybe she has some idea.
I see a tear fall on her son’s shoulder from beneath her veil and I try to usurp her sorrow, make it my own, feel the same kind of sadness she is feeling right now, but our mourning will never be identical. She has the right to cry for him when I don’t. You’re not allowed to cry over something you’ve lost when you stole it in the first place.
The priest makes the sign of the cross over his chest and the woman steps forward and kneels down to toss dirt into the hole. I can see a run in her tights inching up the back of her calf and I pity her. Even her stockings don’t have the decency to keep it together. She turns her head my way and I duck behind one of the trees, my back pressed against the bark and moss.
The breath catches in my throat as I imagine his body there in a box just a few yards from where I stand. I wonder what suit he’s wearing.
He wouldn’t have cared. He would say something like, “Why the hell would she put me in a thousand dollar suit if it’s just going to get buried? What a waste of suit.”
I can hear the woman and her son’s footsteps as they make their way through the grass to the car. She sniffs and I peek out through the gap between the trees. She has her head down, but the boy is looking straight at me. I quickly pull my head back behind the trees, but it’s too late.
I can hear the boy asking, “Who’s that girl?
The woman sounds confused. “What girl?”
“The girl hiding behind those trees.”
I don’t wait for them to get near enough to see my face. I know she’s seen me before--just once, but that may have been enough. If she saw me now she’d be wondering why I’m at her husband’s funeral.
I book it for the parking lot, my heels catching in the soft grass and dirt. I can hear her calling after me, but I don’t look back.
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