If he had died where he was born, Louisiana bayou farm, the neighbors might bring gumbo, stocked with crawdad heads, play Cajun tunes, share dirty jokes he used to tell. But this is New Jersey so there’s lasagna, marinated olives, antipasto and angina. The voices are flat, complaining about traffic coming from the funeral home. If he had raised two closer sons they might be laughing now, at how he gobbled ice cream cones out in the yard, afraid her friends would tell he’d cheated on his diet plan. But they haven’t giggled in years and talk now just to quibble over how the chaplain may be black, and whether bagpipes at the funeral would be considered tacky. If he had lived a few more years he would have gone to weddings where his grandchildren would seat him near the front-most pew so he could see the way his family’s branches spread. But he lies stiff inside the coffin covered with a veteran’s flag, immune to the impassioned eulogy recited by a preacher who never saw his face or to the flowers wilting on the altar rail.
Ali Fischer