The Funeral

Mike O'Regan was in the mortuary building at Dublin Airport, waiting for the release of his wife's remains. He was frustrated and annoyed because the red tape and time consuming formalities had delayed the discharge of the body. One of the necessary documents required by the city coroner's department had gone missing; the undertaker Mike had engaged was now in the process of sorting that out.

Mike's face was set in hard lines; his eyes were dark and miserable as he prowled the waiting room in a weary circle. he furrowed his brow as he saw the mortuary's supervisor, who was called Joe, heading, once again, in his direction. This small wizen man was getting under his skin. He took in the long face, the forced smile, the jerky hand movements, dry skin rubbing off of dry skin. He glared crossly at Joe as he heard him say, 'ya know, there isn't a day passes that we don't have trouble with some missing document or another, your case is no different.'

Mike knew that he was being set up; he knew, for certain, that Joe was just passing time and he wasn't in the mood for this. He gave him a cold stare, followed by a deadener of a look, as he removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes to ease the strain. He rudly turned his back on the man and walked towards the window. He just wanted to be left alone.

The waiting room was painted light beige, scuff marks were showing on the wall where the door had continually banged off the plaster. Unread magazines were scattered across the low table which seperated the rows of low, unoccupied arm chairs lined up on either side of the room. Stillness hung depressingly around the area. Even though it wasn't cold, Mike felt chilled, he hadn't slept properly since he had heard the news, may be that's why he felt cold to his marrow. He thought of all the people, who like him, had waited in sorrow, in this very room, for loved ones to be released from the holds of planes. What tears must have flowed here, how many hearts had been broken, how many lives destroyed?

The single storey, grey building, adjacent to the air freight hanger was situated well away from terminal 1 and 2. The Dublin Airport Authorities, just like every airport authority in the world, shielded travellers from the depressing realities of bringing home the dead. Coffins were off loaded from the hold long after passengers had departed into the terminal building, blissfully unaware that they had travelled with a corpse. Looking out the window of the mortuary chapel, Mike observed the comings and goings of planes, as they carried commuters and holiday makers to their various destinations and he accepted that life must go on. Not for the first time, he tried to put together the pieces of the jigsaw that had brought him to this sad and lonely place.