Every Day

“It’s time to wake up,” she says quietly, as if she wants the transition from sleep to waking to be the easiest it can be. “I’ve hung your clothes on the door of the closet. We’ll be leaving in about forty-five minutes. Your father is … very upset. We all are. But he’s taking this particularly hard, so just … give him room, okay?”

While she’s talking to me, I don’t really have the focus to figure out who I am or what’s going on. But after she leaves and I see the dark suit hanging on the closet door, I piece it all together.

My grandfather has died, and I’m about to go to my first funeral.

I tell my mother I forgot to tell friends to cover me for homework, and get on the computer to let Rhiannon know that it’s not likely I’ll be able to see her today. From what I can tell, the service is at least two hours away. At least we won’t be spending the night.

My father has stayed in my parents’ bedroom for most of the morning, but as I’m hitting send on my message to Rhiannon, he emerges. He doesn’t just look upset—he looks newly blind. There is such loss in his eyes, and it permeates every other part of his body. A tie hangs feebly from his neck, barely knotted.

“Marc,” he says to me. “Marc.” This is my name, and coming from his lips right now it sounds like both an incantation and a cry of disbelief. I have no idea how to react.

Marc’s mother sweeps in.

“Oh, honey,” she says, wrapping her arms around her husband for a second, then pulling back to straighten his tie. She turns to me and asks me if I’m ready to go.

I clear the history, turn off the computer, and tell her I just need to put on my shoes.

The car ride to the funeral is largely silent. The news plays on the radio, but after the third loop, I don’t think any of us are listening. Instead, I imagine that Marc’s mother and father are doing the same thing that I’m doing—accessing memories of Marc’s grandfather.

Most of the memories I find are wordless. Silent, strong stretches of sitting together in fishing boats, waiting for a pull on the line. The sight of him sitting at the head of the Thanksgiving table, carving the turkey like it was his birthright to do so. When I was younger, he took me to the zoo—all I can remember is the authority in his voice as he told me about the lions and the bears. I don’t remember the lions or the bears themselves, just the sense of them that he created.

There’s my grandmother’s death, before I really knew what death meant. She is the ghost in the background of all of these memories, but I am sure she is much more prominent in my parents’ thoughts. My own thoughts now turn to the last few months, the sight of my grandfather’s diminishment, the awkwardness between us as I grew taller than him and he seemed to shrink into himself, into age. His death was still a surprise—we knew it was coming, but not that particular day. My mother was the one to answer the phone. I didn’t have to hear her words to know something was wrong. She drove to my father’s office to tell him. I wasn’t there. I didn’t see it.

It is my father who looks diminished now. As if when someone close to us dies, we momentarily trade places with them, in the moment right before. And as we get over it, we’re really living their life in reverse, from death to life, from sickness to health.

The fish in all the nearby lakes and rivers will be safe today, because it seems like every fisherman in the state of Maryland is here at the funeral. There are few suits to be seen, and fewer ties. My extended family is here, too—crying cousins, tearful aunts, stoic uncles. My father seems to be taking it the hardest, and he is the magnet for everyone else’s condolences. My mother and I stand at his side, and get nods and pats on the shoulder.

I feel like a complete imposter. I am observing, trying to record as much as I can for Marc’s memories, because I know he is going to want to have been here, is going to want to remember this.

I am not prepared for the open casket, to have Marc’s grandfather right there in front of me when we walk into the chapel. We are in the front row, and I can’t take my eyes off of it. This is what a body looks like with nothing inside. If I could step out of Marc for a moment—if he did not come back in—this is what he would look like. It’s very different from sleeping, no matter how much the undertaker has tried to make it look like sleeping.