Apology, Vignette 1

No outside noise filtered in; the only sound pulsing through his mind was the ache of his heartbroken soul. He stopped counting the rows as he neared the pulpit, not seeing the many faces glancing his way, nor hearing the murmurs as he passed. He didn't see his co-workers, or her family, or his team. He didn't see him off to the side, slumped in the wheelchair with his cane stretched from arm rest to arm rest. He didn't glance at the IV drip, or the way she monitored his breathing, his pulse. He had no idea that she had forbidden him to come, yet he had; he was unaware that he had insisted.

He took his seat in the first row, opposite the aisle from her parents. He sat alone. He cast his eyes downward, silently in prayer, wishing he could be anywhere else at that very moment. He knew she lay in the closed casket, wearing her favorite blue skirt and matching cardigan, her pearls draped around her neck solemnly. He knew he'd never hear her voice again. He knew the make-up left her looking vacant, unable to hide the visual reminder of what caused her demise.

He didn't hear the start of the organ, or the shuffle of feet as family and friends filled the seats behind him. He paid no mind to the empty seats on either side of him, empty like the hollow beating of his heart. He hadn't heard the light smack of a hand batting at another from the back. He hadn't heard her protests. He hadn't heard the off kilter thump of a gimpy stride accented by the squeaky trill of the IV stand as he approached.

He kept his gaze facing forward, not acknowledging the looming presence beside him, not seeing the pressed shirt or respectful tie. He heard the sound of a deep, ragged sigh, fraught with apology at his side while simultaneously feeling a firm hand on his shoulder. In recognition, he did not flinch, nor pull away; he simply accepted his presence.