15 Funeral by Justin Kemp People dressed in black with white faces line up to lay their contrition before the coffin. Piano keys, I think from my seat on the mossy bench a little way from the mourners. Piano keys danced upon by familiar fingers. Who will play it best…? I note my observation in the little black notebook that I always carry in my coat pocket. A burst of sobs draws my attention back to the funeralgoers. A plum shaped woman with gray curls swarming around her head trembles on her knees beside the coffin. The young man behind her bends over stiffly, yanking a handkerchief from his suit pocket to shove into her shaking hand. The Plum wipes her face gratefully and allows The Stork to pull her to her feet and guide her away. Is grief only appropriate so long as it is conveniently expressed? I write. Do we stifle other’s grief when it does not resemble our own? Do we stifle our own grief when it does not resemble other’s? Do we— A tap on my shoulder interrupts me. I snap my notebook shut, slip it back into my pocket, and turn to a stranger looking over my shoulder. His disheveled gray suit—matches his hair, must remember to write down—blends into the foggy field behind us. The old man’s face sags as much as his brittle frame, with only a cane supporting his spine. Nothing catches the sadness sliding down his wrinkled cheeks. His eyes remain glassy even as he looks at me. I tug my hat brim lower, hoping recognition won’t spark them to life. “Can I help you?” I say with a wan smile. The Drooper points to the coffin with a grunt. “How did you know him?”
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