I think wearing all black would be presumptuous of me; that should be reserved for family members. I will wear gray or navy, and only a little black. I don’t even know whether this is my first funeral. I imagine my two-year-old self at my father’s funeral, sitting on some willing grandparent’s lap, sucking my thumb—something that would normally be forbidden, but surely no one would have said no to me that day—and watching the service, not understanding what it all meant. I see myself hot, cranky, and hungry; I imagine my hair being stroked; strangers kissing me, pitying my mother and me.It’s easier to think I didn’t go, and so I imagine the adults saying, She’s too young. Leave her home with the sitter—a funeral’s no place for a child.My mother and I take a cab together to the funeral home, even though it’s only eight blocks away. There’s a crowd outside, people waiting to get in. My mother had insisted we leave early. I thought she was just nervous about being late.
