Visitation
An hour into the visitation she seems to be holding up pretty well. Her son, not his, introduces himself to me and I reciprocate. I see the recognition in her face and smile. We hug. I’m so sorry. Thank you, she says. I heard you sold a painting on Sunday. Her eyes glaze over. I shrivel. Yes, she answers. I struggle. It doesn’t compare, does it? No, she said. I wither. I know you’ll manage. She nods, her eyes welling. Mine well, too. It just doesn’t sound like him. He was always smiling. It’s not like him, she says. That’s why he doesn’t look like himself now, because he isn’t smiling. Oh, I say, looking to my left. Thank you for coming, she says, and turns away to greet the next person. I move to the coffin and view the waxen, non-smiling face. Thanks for those funny jokes in typing class. Everyone here loves you. See how many? Didn’t you know? I stare and well again. Please forgive my lack. I maneuver through people I don’t recognize and some I do to watch the memorial video playing in the corner of the parlor. I recognize the uneven teeth. I look for answers in the choir robe shot, the wedding dance scene, the son’s graduation picture, but he’s smiling in every photo. Damn it.
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