The Man in the Cedar Box

I stood towards the back of the long, low room. Pale skin and auburn hair contrasted starkly with dark lips and the black lace covering the fragile frame of my body.

Various wisps of flat conversation fell deafly upon my unknowing ears. I watched idly as my fellow mourners milled around me in meaningless small talk. All sense of the reality surrounding my being fell away as my eyes were affixed to the solitary patriarch of the room.

He was the purpose we were all congregated here. My eyes observed him glassily, mirthlessly.

He was a box. Or, he might as well have been the box. A long, smooth cedar box, hewn of an ancient cedar tree who had lived a full life in a forest somewhere. I wondered if the tree had known that he would one day give his life in order to spend his eternity bound with another whom had kissed earthly sentience goodbye. It was an oddly comforting thought.

My eyes, though growing stale, refused to grant me the solace of tears. I could ponder fanciful romantic thoughts as much as I pleased, but even fine imagination could not alter the reality of death.

Death.

The word felt cold and bleak, and I felt my soul frost over ever so slightly. I hardly even knew the man in the cedar box. His eyes were shut in an eternal sleep from which he would never awaken. I knew I could go across the room and shout and scream-- “Hello! Remember me? I'm your niece!” But he would never open his eyes. He was right there-- and yet-- he wasn't.

I simply proceeded to observe, maintaining my private and silent vigil. Faceless women and men in dark attire appeared in my line of sight, and extended flat condolences. I continued to stand, still as a statue. Only a handful of lingering mourners remained scattered, dully sipping watery coffee and forever maintaining their pointless circles of chatter.

I began to pull my eyes away from their locked position when I noticed a solitary mourner standing in the corner. He was very small, with delicate features and skinny limbs. Dark hair and light eyes, a photographic replica of my uncle in his youth. He was the sole grandson of the man in the box. His pride and joy.

Slowly, the little waif approached his grandfather as though he were approaching his bedside. He placed a frail hand upon the smooth cedar edge of the coffin and gazed down upon the sleeping face. He seemed to be moving his mouth in a quiet, reverent conversation.

Observing this strangely beautiful scene, I realized I was a witness to a moment too sacred and reverent to document by simple photograph or even painting. It was the most lovely kind of sadness, like trees letting go of their foliage in the autumn. A beauty not native to this earth, I am humbled to have been allowed the privilege of observing it.

As I watched the young boy bid his beloved grandfather farewell, my mind began to reawaken itself. Turning my poised body away from the cedar box and his visitor, I began a slow procession around the long, low room.

A plethora of photographs from days of yore were placed in various places for mourners to reflect upon. My fellow darkly clad strangers paid them little heed, as they seemed to take their solace in empty words. Yet as I studied each picture-- a Christmas morning, a wedding, a party, a graduation-- there grew an increasing sense of peace.

I turned my head back to the cedar box, where the boy was now kneeling in silent prayer. Shifting my attention to the face of the man who was sleeping, I gently touched a photograph of he and his wife at their home in Larchmont.

Though his life story was now over, the last chapter ended and the book shut... this man had lived. This man who was lying there, bound in an endless rest and never again to see the light of day had passed with a blissful smile upon his lips and absolute peace within his heart.

He had known he was in his final chapter. He had reconciled the loose ends of the past and had forgiven debts of yesterday. He had wept his last over old pains and put them to rest. He had lived his life in total love and had died peacefully, knowing his personal story was over.

As I looked from the photograph of the smiling, lovestruck man to the lifeless, sleeping form in the cedar box, I knew that he was still happy--wherever he was. As he lay there silently with nothing left ahead of him, it dawned on me... his final monument was a message. It was a message of hope to his mourners who cared enough to listen. To those who weren't ambling in circles listening to each other with mortal, hungry ears. It was for those wise enough to listen with their beating hearts.

His final testimony was for us to be in his position one day. For we all will be. We all are human. We are born, we live, we die. This is unavoidable. But when I am the box at the head of the room, the cause of discussion and assembly and black lace and wet eyes... will I have left a legacy of love and kindness? Will those gathered in the long dark room be there out of obligation, or because I was a positive and good influence in their lives? Will I have debts and grudges on my shoulders? Or will I forgive all and lie in my box a free and peaceful woman?

The man in the cedar box was a free and peaceful man. His choices were made, his life's book closed. But his young grandson and I... we still had the power to choose. All ahead of us was uncertain. The love and heartbreak and happiness and sadness and beauty and ugliness and peace of life still lay in the vast unknown facing us each and every day. It was all behind the peaceful man in the cedar box. And as I observed the young boy cross himself and straggle out of the long room, I allowed myself a faint smile. The little boy had left the side of the man with no story left to tell, and would go tell his own.

I parted through the sparse sea of darkly clad humanity and finally approached the cedar box. The man within seemed to be smiling gently. He knew I had understood his message. And I was certain his young grandson had as well.

Bending a knee, I kissed my satin gloved hand and placed my mauve fingertips upon his forehead. Whispering a silent thanks and farewell, I finally felt a single tear escape my placid eye.

Smiling, I turned away from the man in the cedar box. As I gradually picked my way through the lost mourners, I was amused by the puzzled expressions I was receiving in accordance with my serenity. But I did not care. The man's message is clear as day to anyone who is brave enough to listen with the heart.

The option of choice is a gift of the living. I have now internalized the message the man gave me, and cherish the choices I have left to make. And one day, I shall pass the message on to other brave souls who come to listen.

Only then will I truly be set free.