The beloved deceased was—honestly—
a pain. Everyone chuckles, relieved. I’m
past smelling the incense, can actually
taste it. They’ll fire it up again to roll the

casket out. There’s your big show: a sad-
faced woman priest walking through the
haze, chanting ancient prayers. You know—
the magic. I’ll barely be able to breathe

again. But now, the roast: true tales
of how full he poured wine glasses. Or
how hilarious it was when she started
to forget things. Dense, smoke-furred,

churchy air, light-struck folds in some
saint’s stained-glass robe: amber, blue,
sepia. Sure—everyone’s fine, all of us
bearing up. In our own eulogies we’ll

be praised for our ability to take a joke.
Outside, noon and a glossy onyx train of
idling SUV’s. Next door's crowded deli.
The modest, quiet clarity of empty trees.