The events of my life play in the movie theater of my mind. The day of the funeral is not like that; it is a photo album. I look closely at each still image to let the story unfold.
Chrissie came for the funeral. She didn’t mind the dead. It was the dying she couldn’t abide. She immediately assumed the role of the strong big sister and I of the one in need of protection. It was absurd; in this picture Camus looks back at us and laughs.
There we are, five of six, each in our turn adding a verse to the eulogy. You can see how wet our faces are and how uncomfortable the people in the seats with our outpouring. If you could hear you would know that some forgot to turn off their cell phones.
This picture was supposed to capture the moment when they closed his casket, but it is blurry. You can just make out how Chrissie grabbed me and pulled me into her shoulder so I would not have to witness the scene. It must have been too much for me after watching him die, after sitting an hours-long vigil with his body while she waited, miles away, for it to be over.
Here is a good one: the wild wind whips everything into a frenzy, yet the Navy Honor Guard stand stiffly, and the flag they fold is as taut and unmoved as they.
This one is a portrait. I sit alone in my house on Easter; I sent Henry and his Dad off to visit relatives that week. Kevin (the sixth) knew I was home alone after the funeral. If you could hear you would know that the phone never rang.