Another phone call and again, I was in the carpeted living room pretending to be somewhere or someone else. My father and his brother left on their own adventure. They were off to identify a body. The booming voice had died. He was murdered.
In the kitchen, my mother spoke tersely to her mother. They were upset, but I didn’t sense they were sad — just angry. I continued to play and don’t really know when my father and uncle returned or even how that day ended. I imagine there was a wake and a funeral. I’m not sure who would have attended. Were there lots of flowers shaped as crosses? Were there cars lined down the block, with little flags mounted to their hoods? Did my parents attend? Was there crying, and stories, and food afterward? Maybe they gathered at my aunt’s house. It was only up the street. Or maybe there was nothing, just what the city provides when someone unknown dies. A John Doe funeral. Nothing and no-one.