“Are you ready?” asks the minister. I look up at my father, expecting him to lead the way down the aisle. He doesn't move. Instead, he stares at the mosaic floor. My little brother looks up at me, his perpetually worried face now anxious. My father, I’m guessing, wants someone else to absorb the first impact of all those faces turning to look at us with the pity and curiosity a suicide in a small town brings. Nobody moves. Uncomfortable bodies shift in the hard pews. There’s an occasional quiet cough. “Let’s go,” I say. We start walking, me first.
Julie Noblitt is returning to creative nonfiction after thirty years of nonfiction writing for reference works and environmental blogs. Instagram: @noblittjulie LinkedIn: @jnoblitt