The air hung heavy with grief. The scent of lilies, usually so sweet, felt cloying and oppressive. We were gathered to say goodbye to Arthur’s father, a man I hadn’t known particularly well, but whose presence loomed large in our lives. Arthur, my husband, stood stoically beside me, his face a mask of sorrow. I squeezed his hand, offering silent comfort. Our son, Ben, barely four years old, fidgeted beside us, understandably restless amidst the somber atmosphere. Funerals were not exactly ideal for kids. He was getting bored with the adults talking around him, and so he wandered off a bit. \
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Ben, ever the explorer, gravitated towards the draped tables lining the perimeter of the room. While the adults were exchanging platitudes and memories, Ben found solace in the shadows beneath the heavy tablecloths. He crawled, unseen, through a forest of chair legs, his small hands tracing the intricate patterns of the fabric. He was just amusing himself, probably looking for lost toys or dropped candies. I didn’t think much of it at the time, just a little bit of harmless curiosity from my child. He popped up here and there, and I’d motion for him to stay close, and he would, for a moment, before wandering off again.
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The service droned on, a litany of eulogies and prayers. I tried to focus on the words, to find some solace in the shared grief, but my mind kept drifting back to Ben. I noticed he hadn’t resurfaced in a while. A slight unease began to creep into my heart. Where was he? Was he alright? I was about to excuse myself to go find him when he suddenly reappeared, tugging urgently at my dress.
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His eyes were wide with a mixture of confusion and fear. His lower lip trembled slightly. He looked up at me, his small voice barely a whisper above the murmur of the room. \
