1 minute read
A Funeral Sestina
Farley Egan Green
You’re old enough, says Aunt Diane, for nylons to wear with your black patent lats. This I kind of like though, really, I’d rather have heels. She picks out stuf in department store aisles: garter belt, hose, a navy-blue suit. Is navy dark enough for the dead? My Mom’s black jacket is lined with pink so I guess it is okay.
Advertisement
In a strange school with cousins while grown-ups go somewhere to plan. Bored, tired, of friendly pats, of sidelong looks, from teachers I don’t know. Okay what do I do. Go along? I will, but math and grammar I ask you? when Daddy will not heal? Nothing to say at lunch. Feel lat, feel dead.
A walk with Uncle Howard. He’s been assigned by Mom to bring up the subject of seeing Daddy dead. He doesn’t look bad, says my uncle, looks asleep. He’ll not be tough to remember that way. Okay? No, I say. No thank you. No way. It smells of winter, my jacket too tight, the snow and the pavement a narrowing aisle.
First-ever limo ride, just a mile, in dress-up clothes to the Cathedral where people are waiting in pews. Out of the car? Okay. Mom squeezing my hand as we walk down the aisle. Breathing heavy, biting down. No use. Brown loor made of tiles, bronze casket up ahead. Guess he’ll really be in there. Guess he really is dead.
Finished with crying, service is done, we get in to the limo again. We ride, through the town above a river to a fancy club. Lunch, then I follow my uncle’s heels downstairs to where you can bowl. I’ll play Uncle Howard, I’ll play, but Daddy is still dead you know, and bowling dressed up is weird, okay?
Back home little brother has started to stutter. Don’t speak of it please Mom says, at all. I’m afraid he’ll get stuck if we tease him so shhh, no comments, okay? Two black-coated priests pay a visit to pray, ofer hope. No good she says, when your husband is dead. She stays in their bedroom, shuts the door to the hall.
I sit in my room, which my dad painted pink. Feel lat, feel dead, got nothing to say. Can’t weep and don’t want to think. Okay?