John’s funeral was yesterday. My dad showed up in a fishing vest and slacks and gave a speech, equal parts heartbreaking and incoherent. My parents never uttered a word to each other. It is possible, at this point, they’ve exhausted all words for one another. Not that everything there is to say has been said, but all of what remains will be transmitted in silence and/or through the three conduits they call their children; a tactic that has already been set forth:

“You can tell your mother  . . . ”

“Call your sister and have her ask your father . . . ”

Fortitude and rigor will be needed to avoid becoming a double-agent.

After the proceedings of a not too religious (thank god) service, save for a few amens and the fact that it was in a church, everyone gathered in my grandma’s small kitchen.  For hours we sat looking at a spread of cut and carefully displayed vegetables and cheeses.  Every so often someone would pick up a carrot stick and hold it with all the best intentions, until, having lost the energy, they’d place it back down to lay limply on a paper plate. Meanwhile, a pile of crushed Natural Light and Budweiser cans amassed on the porch. My uncles, all men I’ve seen just as often with their shirts off as on, are managing their grief just as I would expect, in stoic silence. They offer each other solace in the form of short, meaningful eye contact and spontaneous, aggressive embraces. Their eyes are wet, but the tears never roll. Favorite stories about John emerged periodically, allowing everyone to revisit happier times, we all brightened momentarily, until we remembered our sorrow.