text: Bells ringing. They’re in the church; they’re in my ears. Bells. I close my eyes and see doves flying. I open them again and see the weather is too dark. Too sad. It’s lost. My sister’s cheeks are as wet as the pavement. My every step weighs heavier than the next and it’s not just this coffin that’s on my back that’s on our backs it’s something more. The weight of death, nearly as unbearable as the whiteness of being. Every step is a slosh. Every puddle is a loss. And if I took the time to catch my own reflection in the mud I’d see the face of death fighting back tears made of mercury just before my own foot stomped the image out. As I move forward. As we move forward. Carrying the burden of a loss on our backs. My face is his face- he gave it to me. His furrowed brow, my dimpled chin, his bushy eyebrows, my winter-hardened complexion, his olive tone, my loving eyes now fighting the force of a thousand hurricanes behind them- his tears in my eyes. His humor in my laugh. His kindness in my smile. His depth in my stare. My mother’s lips are as shaky as my promises. She can barely hold them still after he’s been lowered into the ground. Low, lower, lowest. He travels deeper and deeper into the earth, exploring depths he never saw in life. Six feet feels like six-hundred. He gets further and further away. I still have not heard him hit the bottom. He’s as low as our hearts have sunk. My brother says that heaven’s real. I can only hope he’s not just saying that. I fear for worse. I fear a hell for my father. Trapped in my body, trapped by my failures. He’s in my eyes, my brother says. His heart beats on in my smile. He’s as hopeful as I am lost. For the rest of the day and the next, we were the closest we’ve ever been. All the long-lost relatives, close friends, recent acquaintances, and old pals had left. Our home was suddenly as empty as his eyes when he passed. We kissed one another goodnight and made sure that we knew we were loved. It’s the mathematics of life and death- one person slips away and four people tighten their grip. Our mother kissed our foreheads like she used to when we were children getting ready to head off to school. In the moment, I felt as small as ever. I may have just as well been wearing blue jean overalls and carrying a lunch pail. We lent tears and warmth to one another. Like a team huddle in the game of life and now feeling more strongly than ever the inevitable reality of our own mortality. We broke away, and I found no trouble falling asleep. Sun beams warmed my too cold skin as it blasted through my window far too bright to be ignored. I made my way down the stairs and past the dining room still set up for guests from the day before and barely noticed the glare gleaming off the stale silverware- distracted by the serenity in our kitchen which drew me nearer. A feeling of inclusion resonated from our linoleum. I walked in to find my family waiting where they had always been. My brother sat gaily at the corner table donning my father’s robe with a coffee and daily tribune- just like dad used to do. My sister couldn’t help but giggling at an anchor’s audacity as she watched the morning news and munched on a burnt piece of buttered toast- just like when we all lived here together. My mother’s smile beams more life-affirming warmth than the sun itself as she poured herself a cold tall glass of refreshing orange juice- just like she has for every morning that I can remember. Despite the loss, despite the pain, despite the missing body from this scene painted so perfect just for dad it’s almost like he’s now the one behind the easel looking down on his beautiful, lovely, coherent creation that he’s left behind and perhaps was only completed and fully recognized posthumously like so many great artists before him- our family, our love, our everything. Just like how dad always imagined it. I sit down in the empty chair across the table from my brother. He’s as hopeful as the light of the morning. I’m as warm as my father’s love filling the room. We’re as peaceful as my father in his grave.