“I thought only Catholics did the incense. What was Reenie, a Quaker?” Peggy whispers. “Them Uniteds will bury anyone, I guess.”

Mama shushes her as Allie steps up beside her mother’s casket, a guitar slung over her shoulder. Allie clears her throat, passes a thumb over the strings, and starts to play her mother’s favourite Beatles song. The words of “In My Life” flow from Allie’s depths, and ascend to the arched ceiling, filling the space, drawing tears from every eye. Except Allie’s. Allie’s voice and composure don’t crack, even for a second. She’s been practising this song, these words, these dry eyes for years. The rest of us are sniffling and sobbing. Allie just smiles in sympathy. With her soft face and nerves of steel, she can do things that other people can’t. She can hold dying hands and sing sad songs without breaking. Maybe she’ll even sing at my funeral.

“Oh Crow, it’s so nice to see you.” A dozen people pat me on the arm and offer some iteration of this phrase as the funeral crowd disperses.

I just nod and say, “Nice to see you too,” to anyone who speaks to me. I have no clue who any of these people are, and my eyes have gone so wonky that I can’t see much of anything anyway. What people don’t do is let on that they know why I’m home, not in words at least. But it’s written all over their faces, in their solemn tone, in the sympathy-laden arm pats that are heavy enough to make me cringe.

We shuffle through the receiving line, and Peggy stops to talk to everyone. Funny how the woman who can’t work and has been on disability for twenty years because of her various “environmental sensitivities” has no trouble holding us all hostage in a crowded, confined space that stinks of cat piss, patchouli, and musty Bibles just so that she can glean some more gossip from this side of Ceilidh Mountain. Loch Bhreagh — and the surrounding communities snuggled in the misty green highlands, with their quaint rural dialects, their fiddlers and dancers, and their cursing in Gaelic — is Peggy’s ex-husband Skroink’s territory. Peggy wants to make sure she’s seen and heard around here so it gets back to him. She lumbers around, shaking hands and chit-chatting like this is a grand social occasion.

“Good to see you, Marilyn. How did Ron’s mother’s surgery go?”

“Now, Donnie R., don’t you look like a million bucks! What’s this I hear about a new girlfriend you met square dancing?”

Oh, hello random Old Scratch! Would you mind telling me what colour shit you had this morning so I’ll have something to post on the Facebook when I get home?

“Can we hurry up?” I say. “I’m not feeling good.”

“It’s a funeral. Nobody here feels good. A sin they’re not doing a proper reception after. People need conversation here. To lighten things up.” Peggy’s jiggly elbow jabs me in the ribs.