Covid's Unimaginable Solitude, But For A Moment Of Human Connection

My brother died suddenly in July 2020, not Covid. I contacted a funeral home, they didn't pick up bodies from private residences. The coroner's office required distance, treated the body like it had Ebola. The funeral home would make arrangements to collect the body and internment, no visitation, no one other than funeral personnel at the internment. They would provide a video.

I begged, via zoom, to be present. The counselor, a woman was understanding but firm. I asked if she had Covid, she said no. I assured her that neither did I. I would keep my distance but let me attend. Maybe a moment of reflection, she agreed but warned me I could still be asked to leave.

I stood 30 feet off, watching a soulless bureaucratic process. Careful, but inhuman. A tap on my elbow, the woman on zoom was there, she extended her condolences. Stood a foot away. When it was over and the burial detail had walked away, she walked with me to the grave and stood with me for a prayer.

I had a chance to look at her, mid forties, Hispanic, heavy. But a genuine smile. I offered to cook her dinner, and to my surprise she accepted. She helped toss the salad, set the table. We opened a bottle of wine. The conversation was easy, a girl from the border, born on the right side. Mother Mexican, father unknown. Raised mostly by an aunt. The job? She needed a job and she was hired by the funeral home.

In that Covid solitude, that night of mourning, our need for human touch overcame our hesitation. Pure sex, physical, body to body, each with our own thoughts, until nature took over. We slept that night side by side, a Hispanic lonely woman and a man who had lost his brother. But that night, and the morning after, human contact, intimate, two souls coming together.

Thanks for giving me the opportunity to tell someone about this, anonymous, as we were the night I buried my brother.