It was nearing midnight. “It’s been a long time,” said my father. “I’ll go and check this time,” he said, and he went back, but he returned within a few seconds. “I think you’re right, Harry. I think her breathing is slower. But it’s not much slower.”

I said that I thought we should eat something, but my father and Freddy both refused, and I, in fact, felt too sick to eat anything myself. I started trying to write a eulogy. “Should we call any of her friends?” I asked.

“Not yet,” said my father. “Just in case something goes wrong. I think we should wait until she’s really dead before we do that.”

“Do you know what arrangements need to be made in the morning?” I asked.

“Your mother and I figured it all out,” said my father. “We’re going to have the funeral on Friday. We’ll have to go tomorrow and work out the details. Maybe you boys can phone our friends tomorrow. I’m not sure I could bear it. I’ll call a few people, maybe, but I can’t face that list. Your mother had so many friends.”

An hour later, everyone agreed that we should try to eat something. There was soup in the refrigerator, which my mother had made a few days earlier. I heated it up. My father cried into his bowl, but he finished it. “This is the last time I’ll ever have your mother’s soup,” he said.

• • •