by storytellerisabel

It’s over. The funeral. One funeral for Mom and Dad. That makes sense, I guess.

But I’ve got TWO giant holes in me.

My brain couldn’t compute what anyone was saying. It sounded like the mwa-mwa-mwa grown-up talk in the Charlie Brown cartoons. My Mom could imitate that sound, BTW. She’d touch her tongue to the top of her mouth, close it, block the back of her throat and then say something. Dad and I always laughed. The twins didn’t get it; they were too little to “get” funny then. (They’ve missed their chance now, maybe.)

So the funeral was Bad. Totally bad. In the front row of benches, Pop and Mimi sat very straight and held onto us very tight.  Like we’d all come apart if they didn’t.

Now, a whole bunch of people are in the backyard here at Mimi and Pop’s.  If you didn’t know, you’d think this was a picnic or something. Pop calls the crowd the partying mourners. Some party, Pop.

Me and the twins are hiding out on a glider behind a sort-of-wall of orange flowers. The flowers are called trumpet vines. They climb this tall, zigzagging wooden trellis that separates us from the rest of the yard.  Mimi says it’s okay if we want to stay away.

The people talk to Mimi or Pop then look up at the trumpet trellis.

Sam and Clyde roll their little trucks back and forth on the seat slats.  It’s weird though. They’re silent. It’s like their volume control knob is turned all the way to OFF.  If Mom were here, she’d be holding their foreheads in the palm of her hand to see if they were sick.

But they’re not.

And she isn’t.

And there’s this KILLER, not even in jail, even though he’s the one who ran the red light. Even though he’s the one who made Mom and Dad go off the road and roll down a hill.

And die.

I’m so mad I have to hold onto the back of this bench to keep from screaming.