A long drive to Tipperary today. A funeral. My friend and her partner walking down the aisle, carrying a small white coffin. Their fifteen day old daughter, Sorcha. They wrote some beautiful, hope-filled words for the priest to speak on their behalf, words that wrapped little Sorcha’s spirit in feather-light love as it lifted away into the embrace of light above.
It’s hard to find the hope in all this. Not for beautiful little Sorcha, who left this world as unblemished as any soul could ever hope to, but for the rest of us. As her parents carried her insufferably tiny little coffin down the aisle, all I could see was the empty little trestle left behind. All I could see was the place where she used to be.
The slow shuffle of feet to the exit. The open doors made a hole of sky in the darkness at the back of the church. And maybe I heard her laughing gurgle as she led us out. I hope I did. I know I swore at God on the long drive back to Dublin. I know that.