The Meadow Annual Literary Arts Journal 2022

The Meadow 107 intact. But she walks with a cane and shakes like the needle of a compass. Her hands. Her chin. Since her husband’s long dead, both of her sons flank her sides. Though it’s October, the weather’s warm and soupy. They trudge in their suits and their dresses, their shoes crunching over cemetery stones, their heels caught in the grass. A tarp attached to four poles shades the coffin as well as twenty folding chairs. The immediate family takes the first row. Then the older relatives, whatever aunts and uncles are left, take the remaining seats. The rest of the crowd hovers. “Marvin was a devoted, father, brother, husband, and friend,” says the Rabbi. Lisa eyes her mother. She has refused to sit. Instead, she stands by one of the poles with the aide. “Let us bow our heads,” says the Rabbi, “and remember a very special man.” Over the sounds of sniffling and shuffling, a plane pierces the sky. Jeff is clutching her elbow while Lisa’s daughters, Ashley and Heather, wait nearby. They haven’t eaten in hours. The afternoon is relentlessly hot. And it occurs to no one that the Haitian aide is on the verge of heatstroke. While she holds Fran’s purse with one hand, she clutches the funeral program with the other. Then trying to keep upright, she fans herself in quick short bursts. Only when the Rabbi finishes talking, when it’s time to cover the casket with shovels of dirt, does anyone pay attention. Plump and perspired in her polyester pantsuit, the aide is teetering. Lisa’s girls lean over and speak first. Ashley’s a cheerleader. Tall. Blond. “Does anyone know where Grandma is?” Heather ‘s her scholar. Driven. Ambitious. “I saw her wandering by those headstones a few minutes ago. Over there. By Lieberman and Schwartz.” “What?” says Lisa. “She just wandered off? You let Grandma

RkJQdWJsaXNoZXIy ODQ3NA==