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Sarah Miller

David is dead.

The whole affair has become far too classy considering the guest of
honor. All I can see are Southerners wearing their church clothes and it
is making me ill. Of course, I have no shortage of black clothing, so that
is not a concern right now. The thing is,

I don't know where to sit.
I don't know anyone here. And they all may very well have
biological ties to my person, but looking in this room I can't see any
family. This is like some sort of bizarre philosophical experiment.
Do I tell people who I was to David? Where I've been for the
last twenty-odd years?
What I'm doing? Who I still remember? What I remember?
Do I sit alone? Or hold the hand of one of his siblings? Sit in the back?
In the front?
Jesus, I need a drink. Grant me the serenity to sit here like a
good mourner.
I wonder what real religious affiliations these people have. I
don't even know what my own is anymore.
Is that urn steel or copper? And who paid for it?

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