At the house among the relatives, my mother was almost giddy as she talked about the service at the church, during which rain poured down and lightning snapped, dimming the lights a couple of times. Her favorite part was the thunder. "When I heard that crash," she said, "the thought just popped into my mind: 'That's Bill Bly, pounding on the gates of heaven!' I almost laughed out loud!" She said she was horrified, but now she could laugh, and we join her, because that's just the sort of thing that does pop into your mind when you're trying your best to behave, to do what's expected, to play the part you've seen others play with such dignity before. She was laughing with relief, because for her that play-acting was finally over. She didn't go to the interment the next day: after three years' dreading it, then fighting it, then just waiting for it, she'd had enough of my father's death . And in one of those ironic juxtapositions that give life its often brutal charm, my sister was in love, so she had no time for death or its ceremonies, beyond the absolute minimum required. So my wife and I went by ourselves, because someone was needed to say goodbye.
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