An entirely white stone room. Light slightly filtering through suspended dust from a back door. An impossibly small window projecting sunlight into a lifeless slated tomb, ethereal and open, not morbid, a blank space. Black foldable chairs, about 20. All facing a casket with flowers laid overtop. You, running around, playing, weaving through the chairs, not understanding what’s going on. Exasperation, blood-curdling screams, pierced with your aunt’s deepest pit of sadness. Remorse. The bewilderment etched into you still. This lives in you. Your aunts dramatic, clenching their necklaces and covering their gaping mouths. Showy funeral attire, lace, hats, veils. Not understanding the reactions, but suddenly understanding mortality amidst running through the aisles, still confused what happened, trying to see in people’s faces the answer. Connecticut. 1992.