1. Your grandmother's hands, sliding you back and forth in the bath water, her naked legs outstretched on either side of you, each breast a smile line across her chest. Your round belly that narrows to a tiny waist, your kicking legs, your glee. White enamel tub, white octagonal floor tiles rimmed in black, double white enamel sinks, silver faucets that pull on too easily. On the floor a beige Target bathmat covered in a few pieces of torn Kleenex (left by Xena who was locked in the bathroom a few minutes too long). Also the shower running and steam filling the bathroom. Rubbing the wet darkness out of your hair until it is frayed into a halo.
2. At the front of the church, a coffin the size of a child's wagon, light gray with a marbled sheen of pink swirled through. Beside and behind the coffin, a few flower arrangements, fans of gladiolas and carnations, the condolence cards on their plastic prongs rising a bit higher than the tallest flower. And behind the flowers the Thanksgiving display, pushed together, closer to the alter to make room for the flowers: pumpkins, chrysanthemums, red flowers with yellow faces, corn stalks, blue ears of corn, squash, and in the midst of it all, the curving tail of the cornucopia, looking very much like a flacid penis. Nevada, the mother, lays her body across the coffin to say good-bye. Only two pallbearers are needed; when they lift the coffin their faces say it was lighter than even they expected.
3. Ricki and Peter's house, the house of my childhood, is filled with windows. The dining room and sun room especially, windows the width of doors running ceiling to nearly the ground. The windows face the lake and the Jarbo's yard. Yesterday, everyone gone, I stand in the middle of the sun room and feel empty in all that light. Down at the lake, I can see a matchbox-sized Ricki showing you the ducks.
4. An hour later, the house is suddenly full. The windows are steamed from the oven's heat, the smell of turkey is everywhere. The football players have returned; Agnes bounces you on the blue exercise ball, Christopher and Tom watch the Packers game, Paul peels back the aluminum foil on his glass casserole dish and Ricki's face tightens. They look back and forth at the clock and the oven and then back at one another. Susan sits on the couch, counting off foods low in potassium on her fingers. Arthur, Agnes's friend, is listening, nodding politely. Later he will do the dishes, inquire about my job, sip black tea with cream, participate good-naturedly in a game of Wise and Otherwise. Your father is in the shower and I have locked Luxy in the bathroom with him. You start to fuss and I take you upstairs to Michael's bedroom. I don't turn on the lights. I nurse you on two uncovered pillows, the sounds sifting up the stairs and down the blue-carpeted hall. The bedroom is spartan: on the bookshelf a collection of elephant figurines and "500 Japanese Verbs." On one wall an 8 by 5 paper certificate that proclaims Michael's captain status on the Kalamazoo College Track team. On another wall, another paper certificate proclaims him a member of the Japanese honor society. The desk has been taken over by diaper changing materials. On the low dresser is a plastic picture frame that shows Michael, Agnes, and Peter with the Travel Lodge bear. They smile the smiles of those who know it is ridiculous to pose with people dressed in bear suits. So ridiculous that it is almost cool. That's often the way fads go. The cliche turns in on itself so far that, with tail in its mouth, it becomes fashionable.
5. Your father holds you horizontally beside the cooked, golden turkey and I snap the picture.
6. The pallbearers fold the white satin into the coffin and put the lid on top.
7. When asked what he would do if he knew the world was ending, Martin Luther replied: "Plant a tree."
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