Kathleen Sullivan Buckley set her jaw and her hat against a cold north wind as she walked toward her husband’s funeral.
God forgive me, she thought. Even hell is too good for the bastard. Suddenly feeling naked against the gale and her own raw feelings, she stopped for a moment to gather herself together, took a deep breath, and felt the sting of unrepentant hatred flood her soul.
Preoccupied with her sinful thoughts, Kathleen failed to keep up with her mother, Rose, who walked ahead and stopped suddenly at the steps leading up to the church. The older woman looked frail. One small, knurled hand ravaged by arthritis gripped a rosary, while the other gathered her cloth coat about her throat in an effort to keep out the gnawing April wind. Scott Buckley’s expensive bronze casket was being carried past the rustic Stations of the Cross that stood outside the adobe-styled church, and when Kathleen caught up with her mother the sight of the casket momentarily jarred her.
Rose pulled a handkerchief out of her coat pocket and dabbled at her eyes. She looked apprehensively over at her daughter. “I’m sorry, Kathleen--sorry for it all.” Kathleen nodded but did not answer. Instead, she felt a sudden, sharp pain in her left clavicle. Automatically, she reached up to rub it and reflected on her mother’s remark, which flung a long, dark shadow back through her years with Scott, years that had moved her into middle age and stripped her of her faith in the Roman Catholic Church.
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish