“Why are you dressed like that at your father’s funeral?”
He stared at the casket for a second.
Then he walked past me.
Straight to Richard.
Every irritated word waiting in my throat disappeared.
Daniel put both hands on the casket.
“Why are you dressed like that at your father’s funeral?”
His shoulders folded.
“I’m sorry, Dad. I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.”
He bent over the casket and cried with a kind of helplessness I hadn’t seen since he was a child.
Nobody whispered anymore.
I stood behind him, stunned.
“I’m sorry, Dad. I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.”
Whatever the dress meant, it wasn’t mockery.
***
During the service, Daniel sat two seats away from me.
I kept glancing at the dress.
Something about it bothered me beyond the obvious.
Whatever the dress meant, it wasn’t mockery.
The color.
The little fabric-covered buttons.
A tiny snag near the waist.
I knew that dress.
But grief had turned my thoughts into loose papers blowing around a room. Every time I almost caught the memory, it slipped away.
Grief had turned my thoughts into loose papers blowing around a room.
Afterward, people surrounded me.
“I’m so sorry, Tisha.”
“Richard was a good man.”
“Please call if you need anything.”
I thanked everyone.
Found somebody’s missing coat.
Told the caterer where to put the coffee.
“Richard was a good man.”
Carried a vase toward the reception room.
“Tisha?”
I turned.
Richard’s sister was holding an empty box.
“Where should these sympathy cards go?”
“On the table beside the guest book. No, wait, people will spill coffee there. Give them to me.”
“Where should these sympathy cards go?”
I reached for the box.
“Mom.”
Daniel stood behind her.
“Give me five minutes, Danny.”
His face went blank, like a shutter closing.
“What?”
“I need to finish this.”
He stared at the box in my arms.
“I need to finish this.”
Then quietly said, “That’s what Dad said you’d do.”
My fingers tightened around the cardboard.
“What did you say?”
