Week #14--Free Entry

A rewrite from an earlier posting:                                        

                                          Visitation

The funeral parlor fills with family and friends of the deceased—

who does not smile. It’s not like him, his widow says. He always smiled.

The blinking video in the corner of the room proves it—

in the white choirboy surplice, at their midlife wedding (they seemed

so right for one another), boating on the lake, camping in national parks,

skiing in Aspen—always flashing those crooked teeth, the same ones

I remember from Ms. Jones’ typing class when he would get us into trouble

for talking too much, for keeping me in stitches. Have you heard the one about . . .

he would ask as his finger jabbed my back. I would twist my torso around

in my desk to see his face light up, all ears. He liked to make me laugh.

I needed to laugh.

The crowd mingles; no one seems interested in the flashbacks,

no one but me, that is, and a nearly blind old woman with a walker

who hobbles right up to the screen, her dark eyes peering into

the memories. Each of us seem to be searching for a sign—a reason.

Nearby, as remnants of his life recycle, he’s quiet and composed:

the downward turn of his mouth, the waxy pallor, sunken cheeks,

eyelids creased shut, and hands folded over his chest forever.

Inertia charges through my arm as I touch his shoulder, his best gray suit.

I miss your smile. Did you hear the one about . . .