The Wake

Even as I stood clinging onto a silver pole and balancing on one leg in the subway, it struck me as absurd: I was changing shoes to go see a dead man; a man had died, and I was changing shoes.

I never know what to say at these things. I read the poem on the program and the cards on the flowers and the photo captions tacked to a felt board, and then I stood in front of the casket. He was painted almost orange, and his suit was blue. I'm sorry, I mumbled to his beautiful daughter-in-law who had given me all the details--the tubes, the surgery, the agreement--while we stood, not smoking, under the awning. There was a time, years ago, when he gave his blessing to his other son to marry me.

The other son, the one I did not marry, didn't show before I, still mumbling, excused myself. Work, I lied and looked back over my shoulder (don't we always?) as I made my way to the train.