The Mourners (Third major revision, awaiting fourth) My mother grips a rose from the casket. She won't look away. My father looks to her expectantly. My grandmother has already been dragged back to the Town Car. I stand there, and I stare at the earth that surrounds my mother's black pumps. The grass is a parched brown - a straw-like consistency that would prick the thin, tender skin over my shoulder blades if I were to lie down. My cousin Jared holds my hand as the mourners disperse. At the wake, he'd touched my left arm and spoke in that dramatic, Italian way that my mother's side of the family often uses, the full-on friendly upper arm grab-and-shake coupled with a smile or laugh (he used the more appropriate smile). But other than that moment, we'd had no physical contact to speak of. He grips my hand tightly now though, and I feel the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand erect just as they did just yesterday when his fingers touched the inside of my elbow. I wish we could carefully lie down on that prickly grass and watch the golden breaks of light in the overcast sky. I wish I could listen to him muse about his life in Germany like he had yesterday when we'd sprawled out on the plush blue carpet in the basement of the Dougherty family funeral home. He had motioned for me to follow him down the steep stairs just as I contemplated turning my back in disgust to the whole family and walking home. He stopped me from walking out the back door. No one had missed us as we whispered to each other under the dim lights of the smoking room. He told me how the weather in the North is cool in the summer and warm in the winter, like the Cape, and they drink sweet wine made from Riesling. He said that I could pick up enough of the language to get by after a couple of weeks, and that English has Germanic roots anyway. We planned a theoretical trip for me to visit as we tried to ignore the anguished cries of the mourners upstairs. Really, I just wish we could find a way out of here - an escape from this cloud of depression. It radiates from the funeral procession. It's been following us around like the slate blue cigarette smoke that hovers around my mother. She's started smoking again. She's making no attempt to hide it from her mother. I imagine myself trying to run away and tripping over the high heels of the dress shoes my mother made me wear. I couldn't disagree with her quivering lip as she blinked back the tears. She trailed off as the tears spilled over and she fumbled around in her sweater's pocket for a tissue or a cigarette. Every familial obligation I disagree with ultimately becomes a command from my mother, suffixed with something about how she's never asked me to do anything for her. This time was no different. Now my mother is in tears for the sixth time today, and she leans against my father for support. I imagine my grandfather settling into his green reclining chair in heaven, pissed, because his daughter is grieving his death. He motions in angry, wild swings of his arms and lets out a stream of almost inaudible mutterings as he rolls up the sleeves of his plaid flannel shirt. I bet he's tsk-tsk'ing the lavish flower spread across the casket and the new dress my grandmother is wearing, the long traditional style with the tasteful sequin appliquŽ just above the left breast. My mother selected the ornate "Last Supper" casket while she squirmed on the oversized leather sofa next to me in Cartwright's. We paid extra. I wanted to tell her that the standard model would be more than satisfactory, but decided it would be best to hold my tongue. I imagine him shouting about how much did we spend on these gaudy things. Groaning, do we know how many pork chops that money could buy? I bet he's fuming that we buried him in a suit. He hated them. The last time I saw him in one was my sister's wedding, and his complaints echoed in the hall during the short breaks in the music. His hand seemed permanently affixed to his neck - losing the fight with the paisley snake around his neck. Jared is squeezing my hand now. I realize I haven't been paying attention to him at all. He's asking if I'm okay, and I say yeah...yeah, I am. I look up and my mother is carefully treading back to the car over the unleveled land. From the neck down, she looks graceful, dignified in her long skirt and blazer with the shoulder pads. My father, who in most occasions like this would be occupying the driver's seat, angrily honking the horn, now walks with her tiny, slow strides. He holds her arm at the elbow, but my mother doesn't need steadying. "Do you wanna walk back?" Jared's voice is low and sweet, and he runs his thumb so gently along my index finger. I can see a sort of tenderness in his proud Italian face, his intense brown eyes softening and his strong jaw less tense. "I can't handle being cramped in the back of Dad's van." It's only now that I notice his long lashes, and how his confident voice wavers occasionally when he speaks. "Y'know, all the uh, baseball equipment back there." Dad being my now-deceased grandfather's sister's son, who coaches high school sports now that he's retired from teaching. Another successful member of the family, working past retirement, just like Nonno. Spending this much time with Jared seems completely foreign. I don't know if it's because of the seven year age difference or because of his physical absence from the family when he moved to Germany after graduation. I remember spending myriad Easters, Christmases and Thanksgivings as the unnoticed girl with stringy hair, reading in the corner. Even when Jared was around, he was always too busy fitting in with the adults to say hello. No one even acknowledged me. I always assumed it was because my mother married an Irishman. I just didn't fit anywhere in the huge, extended family, where everyone in the bloodline was introduced as my "Cousin So-and-So. You remember him, right? He was at your first communion party!" My father always seemed on the outside of the circle as well, shaking hands and then firmly planting himself against the wall for the rest of the day; only my Uncle Johnny ever talked to him. Everyone was far too engrossed in togetherness and tradition to accept my mixed blood. I never really felt deprived of my distant cousin, but now I'm grateful for this contact. Of the members of the sobbing procession, he seems like the only person who shares any of my sentiments. When my parents' car is out of sight, I slide out of my shoes and, still holding Jared's hand, we slip down the trail behind the cemetery. I knew my parents would forget about me. From the way he dawdles down the path, I assume he has no interest in making a speedy return to the mourners. I can't blame him. The canopy of deciduous trees opens up to sparse patch of land that was once the park that was the center of my childhood. As I tread up the steep little hill a ways from the road, I shield my eyes from the light of the midday sun. I picture my mother also looking into the brightness, through the solitary window in her childhood bedroom, the murmuring crowd mourning beneath the scuffed hardwood floor. Of all the mourners, I figured she would be the one to have it together. She was so stoic in the hospital. The only square of green grass on the hill, where the swings used to be, seems inviting, and I decide to sit down. Jared stands in front of me, shaking his head as he looks over the paved patch of land that used to be the football field. There used to be a metal slide and a jungle gym nearby. There was a merry-go-round. The expected scent of cool, moist ground is replaced with the toxic stench of rubber and treated mulch. "What did they do to the park?" Jared asks, gesturing towards the asphalt, then throwing his arms down and shaking his head more. He hadn't watched our childhoods metamorphize into a play land of brightly colored plastic - he was away at college. I motion for him to come sit down next to me, and he sighs as he reluctantly does so, picking spot on the patch of grass close to me. "This is a real eyesore," he finally decides. "Mm...yeah," I murmur. I wonder if he can even hear me, as I can barely hear myself over the wave of thoughts breaking in my head. I think I want him to hold my hand again. "God forbid kids hurt themselves. Scars build character." "You sound like Nonno," he says, and a faint smile graces his face. He looks down though, and after a bit of a pause, he comes out with, "It's insane how much we value life. Almost to a painfully stupid extent." He motions extravagantly again, and I get the feeling he's no longer talking about scraped knees on concrete. Jared would be rendered mute if you held his hands down. I never speak with my hands. There's a long pause. It is not uncomfortable. We stare at the brown, green and yellow plastic contraption of a play structure. The extensive expanses of green trees I remember running through have been replaced with tiny saplings, held in place with stakes. The remembered fragrance of fresh air is now hanging thick with the exhaust of soccer mom vans driving down the main road to the next game. It's early on a Saturday afternoon and there's no one to be found here. I wonder why I didn't notice this emptiness as a child. In this saddening silence, I am trapped with my thoughts. My mind is pressing me to speak. There is nothing to be said; only one thing is on my mind. "Why is everyone so upset about Nonno, anyway?" I feel so tactless, just blurting this out. Does he notice my embarrassment? "I've been trying to figure that out myself. I thought this was a blessing; I couldn't bear to see him the way he was." My frustration spreads and my whole face flushes with a trembling shade of red. This instability teeters like the houses of cards I would build in my grandparents' basement back when my mother was still working. Except this time I don't have the box for limited edition Risk to brace this masterpiece of chaos against. "I mean, after the stroke, he wasn't the same. I don't understand why everyone thought he'd somehow come back..." and his voice is vacant. He muses about the man he saw that man in the hospital bed with the empty eyes. He describes the pink walls in the rehabilitation unit and the gold crucifixes on the walls. The incessant beeping of the machines. "That man wasn't Nonno." I wrench my hands in my lap. I remember the wheelchair and line of orange prescription bottles on the windowsill. I remember his sallow face, and the Queen of Spades is added to the elaborate, teetering Mayan Ziggurat in my heaving chest. I feel as though I can somehow salvage the project, but then somewhere, far away from where I am, I hear Jared's voice again. "I prayed for this. I prayed he wouldn't suffer anymore. I prayed they wouldn't have to force the pills down his throat anymore. The Coumadin, that fucking Zoloft." The tears spill over, and I feel as though I'm playing 52 pick up. "I did too," and now we're both laying on the hill, staring into the sky. Quiet tears drip down the sides of my cheeks. My shoulder digs into the gritty earth, and the prickly grass pokes jagged Morse code into my calves. I hear myself sigh. He rolls onto his side, and says, "hey," and I sit up enough to look back at him. He throws his arms around me and pulls me into a hug. I try to hug back, but I'm more concerned with wiping my tears away. He notices my reluctance and pulls away. I wish he hadn't. Rolling onto my back again, I find myself staring into the sun. It seems a lot lower now. I sit up slowly and squint towards the horizon. He follows suit and sits just behind me, his arms cautiously folding around my neck as he hugs me from behind and rests his chin on my bare shoulder. My hands rise to his forearms; the sleeves of his oxford shirt are haphazardly rolled up. The hair there is softer than I expected. Silently, we watch the clouds. "Perhaps we should head back?" he ventures after a long while. "Maybe they miss ignoring us?" His voice is soft. No one on my mother's side of the family speaks this quietly. I can feel him smile into my neck, his breath warm on my skin. He stands up and offers his hand. We put forth a weak effort to brush the dead grass and dust off our formal clothes. We hold hands and head in the direction of my grandmother's house. We don't need to speak; we both understand the other's worries. We mentally prepare ourselves for the, "it wasn't his time to go," and "why did the Lord choose to take him now?" chorus from the mourners. I don't even know why I'm going back to that old white house next to the pine tree. Until now, I never had a sense of familial duty. I'd never felt it necessary to take on the responsibility to tend to the needs of a family. Especially one in which I felt ostracized. There was nothing awaiting us at that house but that thick cloud misery and a picked-over platter of lunchmeat. At least I had him. Carefully, we pull open the green back door. Jared is swept up immediately by his family, and I hear them murmuring about the dust and grass on his jacket. I am alone. No one even noticed that I was missing. Despite what I predicted of this situation, I am still somewhat relieved. I know my mother has been preoccupied with caring for my grandmother. I know my father has been sitting on the couch making awkward small talk with my Uncle Johnny and shaking his head in frustration each time Johnny loses the last shred of his restraint bursts into tears and hides his face in his hands. I brush past the red-eyed, shuffling, muddled forms in the kitchen as they all make their way towards the back door to walk down the new wooden ramp. The room is warm and sticky, the way I'd imagine the interior of a teakettle, just before it whistles. The white linoleum floor burns my feet; they've grown so used to the cool ground. Men and women shuffle around me, rubbing at their eyes and looking to their feet or the clocks, all set to 3:14 - the moment he died. If I just clean up, I'm certain I can deal with these people. I can imagine myself wiping away my frustration along with the dust on my face and shoulders. I sprint up the stairs to make a better attempt at straightening myself, but I find my mother in her old bedroom, next to the bathroom. The door is slightly ajar. She sits on the corner of her old bed, covered in the same bedspread with the tiny blue, pink and yellow flowers. She faces the window, crying. I knock, softly at first, then louder. She raises her head from her hands ever so slowly and looks at me with her weary eyes. "I prayed for this," she finally says before looking out the solitary window at the sniffling mourners climbing into their cars to head to their homes.