I imagine the two of them, sitting on a wooden dock, backs silhouetted against the sunset in the distance, the sky pink and yellow mirrored on the lake. Fireflies flickering between blades of grass, bullfrogs croaking, cicadas drowning out the sound of the water lapping the shore, and black moccasins slithering just under the surface. But last weekend was cold, the fireflies dead, snakes already in brumation. Michael’s voice is choked with emotion, but I’m not buying it.

Tripp jogs to the front and places a hand on Michael’s shoulder. “Thanks for sharing that story with us, Mike. We all remember how much Jay-bird loved to fish, and it’s nice to know he got to the weekend before he—he left us.”

A weepy gasp from one of the girls in front of me.

“Does anyone else want to share?”

Bodies shift and chairs scrape the floor, but no one moves to the front. An awkward silence. For someone who was well liked by so many, there are few with anything to say. I scan the room. Those in the back have already marked our presence, and the knowledge seems to ripple until it reaches the front. There’s a hiss of a whisper, gone before I know what’s been said, but I feel Teddy tense at my side.

“Okay, well, then, I thought, I could read a poem?” Tripp’s voice arches into a question.

There’s a snicker and someone mutters “pussy” under his breath, but the others shush him.

Tripp reddens and clears his throat. It’s the long neck and Adam’s apple that make me think: sad giraffe.

He unfolds a paper from his pocket and begins to read.

Joyously his days of youth so glad

Danced along, in rosy garb beclad,

And the world, the world was then so sweet.

And how kindly, how enchantingly

Smiled the future, with what golden eye

Did life’s paradise his moments greet.

While the tear his mother’s eye escaped,

Under him the realm of shadows gaped,

And the fates his thread began to sever,

Earth and Heaven then vanished from his sight.

From the grave-thought shrunk he in affright,

Sweet the world is to the dying ever.

There are real sobs from the crowd now. A girl crumples over her knees and a boy rubs her back absently. I scan all those lithe and youthful bodies decked in black, and think of dangerous undercurrents of misdirected, short-circuiting energy. I think of lost brothers and Ken dolls, large fingers reaching down to organize them in rows, bending the crooks of their elbows so their heads touch their palms in contrition, but their faces remain the same. My hands begin to shake.