A Delightfully Overcast Summer Day

I was going to write about my job and some of the problems I’ve been having lately. I would have done it in a way that was smooth and poetic, so that you wouldn’t know I was spilling my guts. I have a lot to talk about, a lot of things I’d like to get off my chest. It might have been some good reading for you.

The day started off very cool and cloudy for mid-July, even in Minnesota. The indoor thermostat read 64 at eight A.M. After feeling the wind for a few minutes, I closed all the windows in the house. I like cool weather, but goose-pimples are one of the ways our bodies try to tell us something important. Like, it’s cold.

I spent most of the morning cutting the excess carpet off the edges of the basement floor, as I had laid it several years ago. There is a new ceiling, with new lamps, another renovation that throws the rest of the house into total disarray. This, I think, as I clip thick threads from fabric, is life. It is potentially obsessive when done right. Contemplative, redundant, meditative. My knuckles begin to bleed. This is a pain in the ass.

There is something weighing on my mind. On my heart, my stomach, my feet. I’m reminded, once again, that we are to attend a wake this evening. She was nineteen, a niece of my brother-in-law’s wife, part of the extended family. The shock and sadness ripples through us soon after her death. We drive to the funeral home to meet my in-laws at 4:30 P.M.

A genial old man asks newcomers which person they are coming to see, and directs our party downstairs. We sign the book. There is food in an adjacent room, but we decline. We are directed into line, delineated by ribbons help aloft by metal stands. We view photos of the deceased as a baby, an adolescent, and a young adult. Some of the most exotic and beautiful flowers I’ve ever seen are on display, with cards from loved ones attached. We inch closer to the coffin.

She looks as if she could come back to life. I hope that she could do so. Her parents are standing ahead of us, shaking hands, crying, and greeting the long line of mourners. What do I say? “We’re here for you.” He remembers me, and says, “Keep an eye on your kids,” in great sorrow, but in a very dignified and noble fashion. My wife hugs the mother for several minutes. I shake her hand with both of mine, and say, “Hang in there.” She thanks me. We move on.

I move around the crowd and wait. My wife knows it’s time to leave. She hugs a few more people, and we walk up the stairs and out to the parking lot. We stop and buy a pizza on the way home and start the oven. I open a beer. I call my 19-year-old son, and there is no answer. He calls back a few minutes later. I tell him where I was; he had gone to school with her. He has to go; he’ll drop by later. I call my 13-year-old daughter, and there is no answer. I’m going to call again soon.