A Field Guide to Burying Your Parents Read Online Free PDF Page B

lusciousness wafts upward, I can still see John so clearly. That brawler’s body always clashed with the suit and tie he had
to wear at the law firm. I love… God,
loved
how his thick, wavy black hair played against those black-as-pitch eyes and that olive skin.
    In the beginning, I was attracted to him more for his general wariness and global distrust in humanity than anything else.
It was comforting…
familiar
somehow. Whenever I visited Huston at his law firm (the visits tripled after I met John), I became more intrigued by John’s
chronic look of skepticism than his obvious physical attributes, although who am I kidding… they certainly helped. Everything
about him was dark—bottomless.
Everything
. Glasses were always half-empty to him. No one could be trusted. We were constantly running off the rails, burning too hot—testing
every wall I’d built.
    I could barely handle him when Mom was alive. Once she—well, once she was gone—no chance.
    The eulogy.
    Huston continues, “When I think about Mom, I don’t think about the big stuff—graduations, weddings, births. I think about—”
He stops and smoothes the paper once more.
    He continues, “I think about the phone calls about lavender that
not even I could kill
, the reminders about building a more eco-friendly deck, the certain knowledge that she knew me best of all and—” Huston’s
voice involuntarily clutches to a stop. He quickly regains control.
    “The knowledge that she loved me more than anything,” Huston reads. His eyes are elsewhere as not one tear rolls down his
face.
    “I’m going to really miss her,” he finishes, and folds the little slip of paper back up. Huston’s words are far away as I
officially decide that this is happening to someone else. Someone else’s mom’s ashes are in that tiny silver box on the altar.
Leo lets out a mournful sob. I pull him closer. John tightens his hand around mine. For being as physically close as I am
to the people around me, I couldn’t feel more alone. The isolation is palpable.
    Huston walks woodenly down the narrow staircase. The rector takes Huston into his arms and surrounds him. I hear him whisper
something about Mom that only those in the first row can hear. Mom’s in a better place, according to the rector.
    “Thank you,” Huston says, trying to get away from the rector and his theories about Mom and that this “better place” isn’t
here with us.
    The rector climbs the stairs as Huston finds his seat next to Abigail. Huston’s body is tense and his eyes look distant. As
he settles back in, I see him drop his head to his chest for just a moment. The second Abigail reaches out to comfort him,
he lifts his head. He’s telling her he’s fine. We’re all
fine
.
    “And now—as we say our goodbyes, Evelyn’s youngest daughter, Grace, will play one of Evelyn’s favorite songs. Grace?” The
rector looks down at me as I robotically let go of John’s hand, disentangle myself from Leo and approach the piano. I slide
onto the bench—it scrapes on the marble floor, echoing throughout the church. I take a deep breath and lay my fingers on the
cold keys. So quiet.
    My fingers steady as I begin playing the first chords to Bob Dylan’s “I Shall Be Released.” The elsewhere. The quiet. I close
my eyes as the song fills the church. I don’t hear the rector leading the people out. I don’t hear the shuffling feet. It
feels like just another day where I’m playing piano for Mom. She’s here with me. I hear the song and feel nothing.
    Any day now I shall be released.
    When I finish, I look up from the keyboard. There’s a silence around me that’s one part terrifying, one part comforting. The
large wooden door that leads out onto the lawn where the rector is standing with a kind word and a shoulder to cry on shines
brightly. I squeak the piano bench back and survey the empty church. I start walking toward the front door.
    Stop.
    Mom’s picture, the one we