Her Castle
Time is out of joint. — Shakespeare
During the funeral we were all bawling our eyes out, only Mom held it together. From the first minute to the last she kept her stare at the priest, who, having been friends with my father starting in high school, delivered an unusually emotional service.
At the reception Mom was on the top of the proceedings. The dining room had been set up by our aunt who instead of attending the funeral stayed in the house to let the caterers in. Due to the twenty-plus guests, we had to drag the kitchen table in the dining room. There were sandwiches, beer and wine, Italian pastries, CD’s playing slow Irish music, no songs.
Somber faces, little discussion, only a few memorable moments were mentioned from my father’s life, like the shrapnel wound he received the day before the the war ended in Vietnam, and his sergeant who some thirty years later, now running for Senate, showed up in his bar to find out not a single person sitting there knew or cared that another election was on.
Mom had a chair at both tables and she made sure she talked with each person at least once. I noticed that while the mourners ate some sandwiches and drank a little wine, other items on the table were barely touched. I guess drinking suds and munching on cannolis is considered inappropriate in a post-funeral wake.
After they left, Mom went in the master bedroom. As my younger brother and I were cleaning up the tables we heard her sobbing. “Mom is a strong woman,” said my brother. “She is only forty-eight, though. Even if it hasn’t occurred to her, she’ll need another guy.” I agreed.
I knew I had to move out.
****************************************************************************
A sketch of this article was published in Spillwords on March 8, 2024.
