If the ceiling leaked, he would place a bucket underneath it and proudly refer to it as a “temporary indoor water feature.” Standing there in black shoes sinking into soaked cemetery grass, I kept thinking grief shouldn’t exist alongside memories of his awful jokes. Yet somehow, it did.
The rain began moments before they lowered Thomas’s casket.
For illustrative purposes only
I stood with my fingers tightly intertwined, watching the casket disappear inch by inch into the ground. Beside me, Michael kept clearing his throat. Mara hugged herself tightly. Noah stared ahead with the expression of someone using every ounce of strength not to fall apart in front of people.
I shut my eyes and whispered, “Thank you, Dad. Thank you for the school lunches with notes folded into napkins. Thank you for learning to braid hair from a library book. Thank you for taking five children who did not come from your blood and never once making us feel borrowed.”
