W. B. Yeats (1865–1939), Irish poet and dramatist “Honey, where have you been?” Mom demands as Chaz and I enter the church, late. This was a deliberate ploy on Chaz’s part to spare me what he’d declared to be a barbarous practice—the viewing, which had been scheduled for the hour prior to the funeral. Unfortunately, I discover as Mom grabs my hand, they’ve kept the casket open just for me. “Hurry,” she says, tugging urgently. “They’re about to close it.” “Uh, that’s okay,” I say. “I’m good.” “No, honey,” Mom says. “You, more than anyone, need the closure of seeing Gran at peace.” “No,” I say. “I really don’t, Mom.” But Mom evidently doesn’t believe me, because she rips me from the safety of Chaz’s protective embrace and drags me to the side of Gran’s coffin, which is at the back of the church, waiting to be wheeled to its place of honor up front.
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