I glanced at my pile of colored papers and got an idea. Maybe there was something I could do for Oren.

“Can I keep this one?”

Dad tilted his head. “Sure. What are you going to do with it?”

“I don’t know exactly,” I said, even as I reached for my scissors.

Six

The service was set for 1:00 p.m. That meant I had the whole morning to make sure the chapel, quiet room and lobby were in tip-top shape. The pews were dusted and polished, the floors had been vacuumed. There was plenty of toilet paper and paper towels in the bathroom, and the tissues were stacked neatly on the table by the chapel doors.

Dad had just wheeled the two trolleys carrying the caskets to the front of the chapel, arranging them so everyone attending would be able to see them.

I was very aware that there were now two dead people in the room. I tried to put that knowledge out of my head. It helped that the lids of the caskets were closed. Mom had told me that other funeral homes sometimes have services with open caskets, so you can actually see the dead person. That never happens here, something I’m really thankful for.

Nate was out in the parking lot, setting up pylons with Syd, so I neatly arranged kippahs in the box at the chapel doors and straightened the pile of tissue packages. Then I vacuumed the lobby. For a second time.

When it was time for lunch, I grabbed a package of tissues from the top of the pile and jogged across the parking lot to the house. Mom was in the kitchen, making sandwiches.

As we ate, we talked about our upcoming camping trip. We were heading out in three weeks. We weren’t doing the RV thing like Danielle and her family though. We would be camping old-school in a tent and cooking over a campfire. I’d never been camping before, so I was pretty excited.

Dad was looking forward to being away from screens and electronics for more than just Shabbat. Even though he loves his job, I could tell he was looking forward to some time away from the chapel too.

Nate had been grumbling about it for weeks. He was not looking forward to being away from screens and electronics.

After lunch I washed up, brushed my hair and changed into my funeral outfit. I grabbed the quilling project I’d worked on the night before. It was a stem with two flowers on it—one for each of Oren’s parents. I’d used strips with their names on them, carefully cut from the program, to make the stems. Hebrew on one side, English on the other. The flowers were made of colored paper, and I’d left them plain except for the centers, where I’d written Oren’s name with a fine-tip marker.

As I looked at them now, I suddenly felt silly. Would Oren even like them? His parents had just died. Even though these were the best ones I’d ever done, why would he care about fake paper flowers?