“Yes, it is.”

“Could you visit their grave for me?” I didn’t know this was something I wanted until the words left my mouth.

A long pause.

“All right.”

“Really?”

“Yes, Pen, really.”

“Great—and bring marigolds. Mom loved them.”

“I know. She had our dad plant a whole patch at the house on Morris.”

“And bring a Mexican bottle of Coke, you know, the kind Dad would only drink once a year.”

“Yes, on Father’s Day. All right, Pen.”

I was afraid to use up her goodwill all at once. “Okay, tell me about surgery this week.”

“Well, I had a hard one.”

“Did he die?” Her patients were invariably older men, and often hated to see female cardiologists.

“No, he didn’t die, but it really took something out of me.”

“I’m sorry, Margot.”

I was sorry and relieved at a break in her invulnerability. She usually gave a brisk summary of her surgical procedures, omitting any mention of deaths or strain.

“Me too. I think Nat is going to fly in and we’ll do something wild like go down to Nashville.”

“Nat—I met her. Did she tell you? She was not what I expected.”

“I felt the same way when she first entered my life.”

After we hung up, I stared down at the phone, trying to figure out what had changed between us.

The night of the Unfuneral arrived. At sunset, I traveled to the big park above Manhattan. On the train, I passed revelers who were heading to the pride parties. Aside from an upswing in Aiden’s sponsorships, and his presence at certain required events, we were not observing Pride. We were living it in another form.

The Unfuneral could only work by candlelight. I carried the stones my parents left me in a leather pouch and brought trowels and candles. The sounds of boom boxes and food trucks dimmed as I carried my candle toward a shadowy spot that we marked with a survey flag. The flag was often bent down to the ground when we returned each year, but no one bothered to take it. That night, it was at a forty-five-degree angle. Sophie was there in her long cape. I lit a candle for her. We didn’t need to speak. I gave her half of the stones.

“How about I dig part of the hole and then you finish it?” I asked.

“Sure.”

In years past, we dug together and, nervous about getting too close to each other, we ended up creating a shallow, oblong shape.

I dug straight down and pulled up clots of earth. I smelled the wet freshness. My parents’ bodies had never been recovered. When I told Margot to bring them marigolds and Coca-Cola, the gesture was symbolic, as are all gestures toward death. I let Sophie dig until the hole was about two feet deep and then we dropped in the stones, one by one. We buried them and circled the plot.

I found myself shouting, “Mom, Dad, Mom, Dad,” and Sophie joined in.