The Burden of the Bereaved

There once was a man who carried in tow a burden of pitiable nature. The burden was not of great weight or size, but disturbing beyond compare, for it had once been alive.

This man’s burden, which dragged behind him like a shadow, was the body of his beloved. She died—not in an accident—as many would suppose, but by her own choice, made in a moment of weighty despair.

Following her death, the bereaved man went about his life, and the body of his beloved did too.

When the bereaved took a meal, her body lay behind his chair. When he lay down, the body was there. When he rose up, the body rose too; not in life of its own, but in obedience to cords which stretched between the bereaved and his beloved. The cords were not of a physical nature, but were the kind of ties which connect two hearts and that are woven by four hands over the course of many sleepless nights.

Years passed. The body which ever dragged behind the bereaved man became mangled and distorted from its rough contact with the passing ground. What was once a beautiful, living woman was now a horrendous mass of rigor mortis, twisted by the rocks and jags of unkind turf. The bereaved could no longer bear to look back at the horrifying form which dragged behind him, not because of its disturbing appearance, but because it served as a constant reminder of what once lived and never would again. But though he did not look back anymore, the sickening sound of flesh being dragged along the rocks behind him constantly tore at his ears. But he could do nothing to loosen the cords which held his long dead treasure to himself.

He was known by all, including himself, as the town necrophiliac; the man who couldn't move on; the stick in the mud; the broken record of broken records.

One day, as the bereaved man was walking with his rotten burden in tow, he came upon a Hebrew who was resting by the wayside. The Hebrew was dark of hair, with skin of an olive complexion and eyes of deep auburn, shining with some form of simple kindness. Plainly clothed and bent with thought, the Hebrew appeared to be studying the world around him, entranced with everything between cloud and dust. He was leaning against a rock as the bereaved passed by, watching an ant surf across the tendons in his hands. His mood could best be described as joyfully contemplative. He was completely engrossed with life, as a painter is engrossed with the stenciled canvas. As the bereaved man approached, dragging the body of his beloved, the Hebrew looked up and beheld the miserable sight.

But the bereaved man noticed none of this. Indeed, he was no more aware of the Hebrew's presence than the inanimate corpse which dragged behind him was aware of it; for the furrowed brow of the bereaved man was ever downward, and his eyes often full of tears.

But the Hebrew noticed the bereaved. He spoke out in a comforting voice.

"Hello my friend, what are you carrying?"

Taken aback by the address, the bereaved man stopped and looked up, wiping salty water from his face.

"She is my friend, sir." said he.

"Is your beloved alive?" asked the Hebrew.

The bereaved, though painfully aware of the obvious answer and struck by the subtle correction, was unable to respond. The Hebrew, knowing this, neither left the issue to fester nor pressed the question, but rather, after a small pause, posed another:

"Why have you not given her a natural burial?"

At the word natural, the bereaved man's face flushed with a rising fury, and the passion in his voice could not be concealed from his response.

"Natural?! It is not natural for a man's beloved to leave him alone. Yet there she lay. It is not natural for death to snatch what is good with such finality. Yet here stand I and there lay she. Why do you speak to me of natural? Why do you address my unnatural actions and say nothing about the unnatural state of the woman that drags behind me? My beloved has gone from me, and that, in no way, is natural. My beloved helped make these cords and then left me to bear her weight in my heart. Unnatural occurrence justifies unnatural response."

He spat the last phrase with a tangible pain that shot through the air and buried itself deep in the chest of the Hebrew.

"My friend," said the Hebrew from the depths of his soul, "I do not claim that the departure of your beloved is justified, nor do I suggest that your loss is cause for celebration. Moreover, I do not accuse you of unnatural reaction, for I know what it is like to carry a burden of the heart. What has happened to your beloved is truly an unblessed occurrence, and her choice to leave you was not guided by wisdom, but I believe you capable of supernatural response to unnatural occurrence. The burden you carry—though understandable—is heavy, and the pain which rests upon you—though justified—is slowly killing you. I only wish to help you remove that which is hurting you, for my burden is easy and my arms are strong."
The Hebrew, far from finished and now openly moved with compassion, continued with voice tender and cracked, tears rolling down his face as he began again,
"My friend, the ropes of your broken heart have broken your back. Give her to me."

"I do not know how to unfasten the ropes," replied the bereaved in the whisper of a broken man, tearfully looking over his twisted and broken shoulder upon the mangled mass of meat which lay fastened to him by ropes of his own weaving. He thought of the nights of solitude, when he had laid with this corpse as a man lays with his wife, embracing the decay of her death as he had the perfume of her life. He thought of the miles he had dragged her, through thick and through thin. Though she would never draw breath again, in his mind, she was his special friend.

The Hebrew did not allow these thoughts to continue unimpeded.
"Don't look at the ropes," He entreated, with a fervor unequaled. "Look at me," He repeated with beautiful sequel.

The bereaved, who until this moment had been unable to lift his eyes from the sand, now mustered all will at his command and met the Hebrew's gaze. There, in that gaze, he saw, not the eyes of a stranger, but the eyes of his beloved; not dead, but living and full of brimming kindness. For a moment, the bereaved man stared, impaled by splendor and transfixed between heaven and paradise. The eyes of his beloved were even more beautiful than they once had been, and looked out at him now, not from beneath the pale folds of sagging, lifeless eyelids, but from deep within the face of this strange Hebrew.

The eyes twinkled "Hello" and the bereaved smiled his real smile for the first time in years. Then the Hebrew repeated his petition, saying, "Give her to me. Place her gently in my arms."

The bereaved man's limbs disobeyed him. He told them to move, and they stood dumb and brittle. He told them again and they quivered a little. He commanded them move, for the sake of his beloved, and their will broke in two. The bereaved turned his face from the face of the Hebrew and retraced the rope which extended behind him to the body of his beloved. He advanced one pace at a time, until at last, with a bend and a scoop, he now held the form of his long dead treasure. He carried her back the way he had come, with the ropes trailing limply behind.

Though every step back to the Hebrew was harder than the last, burdened as he was with the form of his beloved, he could hear the voice which he had trusted all his life, coming, not from within his heart, as had been the case in the past, but from the mouth of the Hebrew. Each word he heard ministered to a need of his heart and carried with it the healing touch of an understanding speaker. The bereaved felt words of compassion fill the air around him, swirling him up in an embrace of tender affection. These words spoken by the Hebrew were...visible...and bright. The bereaved man's feet, which now felt a few inches from the ground, seemed to him to be gliding forward without burden as he was pulled toward the Hebrew by the radiant words. When he reached the Hebrew, for the first time in years, he felt the ever-present sorrow lose ground in his heart and the body of his beloved felt lighter. With the touch of the Hebrew, he felt a fracture erupt in the shell of despair which had encrusted his soul.

And then at last, with one final heave, he deposited his life's treasure in the arms of the Hebrew, and for the first time in years, he felt the weight of his long-dead beloved lift from his back.