Mourning Becomes Her
Her first words to me that summer were, I heard your father died.
I nodded my head, expecting her to say she was sorry like everyone else.
I wasn’t at an age when I wanted attention,
my father’s death embarrassed me. I didn’t want to talk about it.
But she didn’t say that, she asked what he died of (cancer),
then when (a week ago), and did I see him die (no!).
She said she would have liked to come to the wake.
I told her Jews don’t have wakes; she said she knew that.
I really like wakes, we Irish have great wakes
but I haven’t been to one in months.
Mary and I had barely spoken before; I knew her brother who was my age
but she was a year older than us at an age when a year made a difference.
My Mum and I talk about who died all the time, she reads the obits
first thing when the paper comes.
A few days later she asked if I’d like to go to a funeral.
“With your mother?” I asked.
No, the family is going visiting today, I don’t want to.
It’s at St. Ignatius, I don’t know who died, it doesn’t matter.
I knew the church; I’d been there to wait for my friend Matt
when he had to go to confession. I liked going there.
We sat in the back; she told me I didn’t have to do anything.
She went to light a candle while I waited in the pew.
Those days the mass was in Latin and everyone but me
knew what to say, when to sit, stand, or kneel.
I watched Mary, kept quiet, did what she did.
We stayed till the coffin was wheeled down the aisle
and most of the people had left the church,
then she took my hand and led me to a small side room.
The walls were lined with pictures of Saints
with rows of candles in front of them.
No one was there.
As the Saints looked on, she kissed me, kissed me hard.