No One Wants to Be Here

Mae

Hayden and I sat in my car in the parking lot of the funeral home. We were early. Neither of us was in a hurry to get out of the car. I turned to look at her, taking in her black dress that was new. Retail therapy was therapeutic. She wanted to wear black and I wasn’t going to tell her not to. We’d found a pretty dress with short sleeves and a hemline that reached her knees. It was youthful and we were hoping she might be able to wear the dress again.

“Are you ready for this?” I asked her.

She stared out the windshield, watching a couple walk inside the funeral home. “I don’t think I will ever be ready.”

“We can go in the side entrance,” I told her. “You, me, Patrick, and Mom will all be sitting in the first row.”

“Why?”

I sighed. “It’s tradition. I think it’s mostly so the other attendees don’t stare at you when you are crying. The only person looking at you will be the guy talking.”

She slowly nodded. “Will there be a lot of people?”

“I don’t know. Before Dad got too bad, he did