It was the smell of lilies,
vile,
and there were gladiolas,
of course,
and too many candles,
lit and dripping,
and dark wood,
lots of it,
not just the caskets.
The walls
floors,
doors,
ceilings,
panel after panel,
of dark wood.
Dark wood,
I repeated to myself,
which reminded me of
that show Deadwood,
and I started to laugh,
tried to choke it down,
choked instead.
Deadwood,
funeral home,
get it,
I said to him
when he gave me
The Look.
He shook his head,
paternally,
and told me to
stop
acting
like
a
child,
but the chair
was too tall
for even my long legs,
and my feet dangled
a few inches above the
ground.
I swung them
back and forth,
and tried to act
like the Caring Wife
I no longer was,
and he left me sitting
there
when he stood and
followed the woman
in the black suit,
to pick out
his father's coffin.
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