A grandson was to be the lone family member in attendance. He arrived five minutes before the visiting hour began. Almost six and a half feet tall, his oblong head dripped feathery brown and gray hair that curled and cowlicked, framing his broad forehead, his prominent nose a flag in the middle of his face. A patchy beard attempted to fill in his cheeks and define his chin. Thick-lensed bifocals fun-house-mirrored his light-colored eyes. A tan suit draped over his gaunt frame as though he were made of wire hangers. If I were to judge by his frail, wan appearance, I would’ve guessed he was in his sixties, but he had to be younger. He tottered and stooped through the foyer toward us as though grief was a city built upon his back.

Being newly preoccupied with my maybe-Marfan-syndrome diagnosis, I couldn’t help but wonder if this man had it, if I was looking at my bleak future, and if his timid heart was already as large as an elephant’s.

His hand swallowed mine in a gentle handshake. He responded to my “I’m sorry for your loss” with closed eyes, a bowed head, and a whispered “Thank you.” He shook Mercy’s hand as well before slouching into the viewing room and engaging Mr. Stephens in hushed conversation.

Mercy whispered, “He kinda looks like you as an older dude.”

“Shut up.”

“I knew you were thinking it, so I couldn’t help myself, sorry. You will not look like him as an older dude. Okay? I promise.”

I made a mental note, at the very least, to never own a tan suit.

Mercy said, “Something’s not right with him. I should take his picture.” Her camera remained in her bag as we joined the others.

The grandson did not engage us in conversation during the visiting hour, nor did he speak on behalf of his grandmother when asked by Father W. He did require, however, that the Pallbearers Club serve the ceremony graveside. This was news to us, and I think to Mr. Stephens, too, as he apologized for not giving us notice sooner.

Mercy and I were third in a three-vehicle funeral procession. While driving she sifted through the pond of cassettes pooled in the center console and threw on the Jim Carroll Band’s “People Who Died.” (If you’ve never heard the tune, think The Gashlycrumb Tinies as sung by a sneering junkie punk poet.) The song jangled into life somewhere in the middle, at the part about Tony who apparently didn’t fly and suffered the consequences foretold by the title. I pressed rewind. We briefly argued about why one always had to start a song at the beginning. She begrudgingly agreed, but to punish me for my rare victory, she insisted we listened to the song (the kind you only needed to hear once to appreciate) twice more before we arrived at the cemetery.