The Night of the Funeral

The drinking began at the wake. On the concrete steps of the library, in the dark, they stood the empty bottles in a row as if waiting for the milkman.

"Empty, he said.

The girl, six years younger, head lolling to one side, rested arms awkwardly on bony knees. In the clear white light of day she would be frighteningly young, skin smelling of baby talc and Charlie Red.

Two vertebrae at the base of her spine, sharp and unfinished, transfixed his fingers. Kissing, his body was distant.

Welcoming people to Mum's funeral the handshaking and hugging seemed to happen to someone else. On show, the son of the deceased, he watched himself numbed to officious politeness, directing conscientiously those with less right to mourn than himself to take their seats, stoically organising lifts to the wake for snuffling school friends and dour aunts.

The girl moved as if learning a foreign dance, rhythm unsure, actions arrested then rushed. Unfocused Kohl-rimmed eyes looked to him for approval.

"Be gentle, it's my first time, she said.

Shocked, pausing, he rested his head on her jagged shoulder.

"I'm not ready, I want my Mum.

Surprised and confused, the girl stood, suddenly angry.