The Wake

The soft hum of whispered conversations broke the silence of the placid funeral home. People shuffled in at the entrance to the room and waited their turn to kneel before my grandfather and tell us how sorry they were at his passing.

"At least he's not suffering anymore," they all said.

My mom dabbed her eyes now and then along with my Aunt Mary Kanyock and Aunt Steffie. Nancie sobbed loudly and moaned sporadically into her tissues. I sat next to my brothers and remained quiet, watching people's solemn expressions as they walked in.

When my Aunt Norcie and Uncle Ernie came in, it was an all too familiar sight, the forth time I've seen them that way in the last year. My uncle in his navy blue suit, my aunt in a flowered patterned shirt and ironed blue pants. It was nice to see them, but we knew our meeting wasn't for an uplifting reason.

"He really had it bad the last few years," my Uncle Ernie said as we stood in the back. "That was no quality of life."

I agreed, and looked at the man in the casket. It was true, two years living in a rancid nursing home, fighting blindness, confusion, and long days of loneliness broken up only by lunch, dinner, and trips to the bathroom was no way to live.

Nancie again bawled, dropping her head suddenly into her arms, drowning out the quietness of the soft murmurs.

A few of my aunts, the ones that lived out of state, or ones who weren't completely repulsed by Nancie in general, probably appealing to the kinder part of their nature, walked up and hugged her, sharing comforting thoughts and reassuring back rubs.

"I cant stand her," my Uncle Ernie said, looking back to me. "She's such a phony."

My uncle was right, the word phony made the perfect description, it was created for such a person. I told him it was the right word choice.

He leaned slightly toward me, "I can't bring myself to even go near her."

"I know," I said, shaking my head in agreement.