‘Er, hello, everyone, thank you for coming,’ Rick began, standing at the podium, clearing his throat in between words. The casket was closed now, so I had to find something else to think about: the way the saliva in Rick’s mouth went stringy as he talked would do. ‘My name is Rick Crawford, I’m a civil celebrant, and it’s truly a privilege to welcome you all to this celebration of Benjamin Whitaker’s forty-six years of life. He was, er, first and foremost, a husband to Rebecca and a father to Sydney.’ He gestured to Mom and me. I felt like I should wave. ‘But he was also a hero to many in our community, and it is with great sadness that we see him off here today.’ He was a nice-enough guy, but as he went on for a bit about the fragility of life and the human experience, it was obvious every other poor wretch had been given the same non-specific speech. It was canned. An ad lib. Insert cause of death, familial relations and religious affiliations here.

And then it was me at the microphone. Felt like I’d just been plucked out of the ether, like this was someone else’s funeral I’d accidentally stumbled into, but they were looking at me all dumb and brow-furrowed so I had to say something. ‘My –’

The microphone wailed. I stepped back while the collective face of the audience curled into a wince. Apologized. ‘Uh, Dad is – well, was. Was.’ They stared. Mom ground her teeth. I apologized again. This was awful. ‘Um, so … Dad really cared about people. About everyone, really. His whole job was listening and empathizing, and that’s, you know. That’s something.’