Dave Knight (pseudonym)
Funeral

      My father didn't cry much when my mom died.  I guess he 
was all cried out over the decade of illness it took for her to get
there.
      When I came home from school at lunch that day I knew
something was wrong because of all the people in the house
who usually worked in the daytime.  When my father finally said,
"Your mom passed away, David," I though it meant something
else and asked, "You mean she went to a new nursing home?"
"No, Dave," he tried again, "it means she died.  Her heart
stopped beating last night while she was sleeping."  "What 
time?" I asked, as if it mattered.  "Four a.m.," he replied. "You
can stay home with us the rest of the day, if you want to."
"Yeah, sure!" I answered.
      Within hours we were tripping over every size urn.  The 
house filled with plants and flowers and cards and people, who 
all went to McNally's Home for a funeral.  My brother-in-law Carl
was the first person to walk upstage to what was called a 
"closed casket" where he knelt down to fold his hands and bow 
his head for a few minutes.  My father said he was Catholic and
"praying."  When I walked to the casket with no religion I kissed
my right hand and touched the coffin where I thought my
mom's face would be.  The crushed velvet surface of purple
roses was soft but nothing like Mom's cheek would feel.
Before I could walk away from her I said to the casket, "We'll get
you out of there, Mom."  Just in case they put her in there by 
mistake.
     My brother Keith and I remembered the last time Mom
came home in a wheelchair for dinner.  We had salisbury steak
with reddish gravy that turned our mashed potatoes a pink,
pukish color.  I couldn't eat them, so I looked at Keith, pointed 
my fork to the potatoes and whispered "Mommy's skin!" behind
my free hand.  We laughed then and again when Dad said, 
"You haven't finished your potatoes."