The boy is up earlier than usual, so we're downstairs when the rest of the crew wakes up. Jen and her husband, their boys, mom - we're all bouncing around the house - taking food in turns.
There's a flurry of people, we get dressed in our best and then we're taking mom in.
At the church, we park and are walking up the front ramp when we are greeted by mom's brothers. One look at their faces and we're up to our necks. That side of the family is pretty big hearted, mom's younger brother isn't taking it well, her oldest brother and his wife take mom by the hand and go in.
On the way in are two cousins I've never met. From their mannerisms and conversation, I can tell I haven't missed much. My wife has the boy, so - unthinking - I enter the main room where my dad is.
I've often said that the worst thing I've ever seen was Grandma crying, that's not really true. The worst thing I've ever seen happened right in this church, right where I'm standing.
My grandfather's funeral was also held here, many years ago. I arrived in the entrance of the church for the visitation right when my mother and father were returning from viewing my grandfather's remains.
My dad had just seen his dad's body.
All my life, my father had been many things: furious and kind, blunt and tender, wise and hardheaded. This moment was without precedent.
My father was being helped from the room because he seemed unable to stand. He was shattered and overcome - something I doubted was even possible. Mom was holding him up, and they rushed out of the entryway to somewhere private.
It was, without a doubt, the most frightening and terrible thing I have ever seen.
So I go in, alone, since my wife is with the boy - and because I'm too simple to just wait. So I go in a rushed circuit of the room. I barely look before I'm unable to see anything. Mom's brother thought to pack extra handkerchiefs, so I'm using his to mop up on my way back to the entrance.
More people arrive - L and the rest. I go up again with mom and Grandma, and we all wilt together. Mom remarks that she was afraid of how dad would look because of the swelling of the head injury. "They did a good job," she says.
I can't think. Dad looks nothing like himself - I've never been to a funeral where the person ever does. There's a folded flag and dad is not in uniform, he'd want it that way.
That's when I just can't contain the fury at all of this. So unnecessary, so pointless, a goddamned tree branch. This man swam though a hurricane surge, he was in better shape than his own son, he was not a careless man. He's supposed to teach my son things, he's supposed to help Grandma, mom, the whole damn family. This isn't right, and there's nothing to do but take it.
Grandma's saying something about how it doesn't get easier. Grief, that is.
"No," I say, "We'll just get used to it being this bad."
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