I did not cry at all when she (finally) died. At ninety- five, what can you expect? Stop that crying, it’s just a scrape, she’d say. And of course, I would. He looks so goofy in that picture, not your type at all. There are lots of other fishes in the sea. Stop that crying and peel those potatoes. And so I did. It was early morning in early September in a Long Island cemetery, but I could have sworn I still heard her voice in a passing breeze, talking to my father who had been long dead, which she often did on days like this, on Sundays especially, while she relaxed and prayed in a big roomy old rocking chair. I could have sworn I could still hear her voice, and that any minute I would evaporate into one of those clouds in this impossibly blue sky (her favorite color). I could have sworn, but I didn’t of course.
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