The church was packed.
Neighbors.
Former neighbors.
People from Dad’s union.
The pharmacist.
The mail carrier.
Women from the altar guild.
A thin man from the downtown soup kitchen where Mom had volunteered every Thursday for twenty years approached me after the service.
“Your mother brought us soup every week,” he said, his eyes filling with tears. “She always said there was always somebody who needed soup.”
I swallowed.
“She told me the same thing.”
Greg delivered the eulogy.
He was good at public speaking.
Always had been.
He told stories about Mom losing her glasses in the refrigerator, calling every grandchild on their birthday, and arguing with a grocery store over nineteen cents.
Everyone laughed.
Everyone cried.
But while Greg spoke, I noticed his hands trembling against the podium.
Every few seconds, his eyes flicked toward the church doors.
As if he were waiting for someone.
Vanessa sat beside me with the children.
