Many relatives attend the grueling four hour visitation. They surround me — cousins, aunts, and uncles unseen for fifteen years or more.
Again and again, I see people I recognize. Again and again, I ‘m wrong. Instead of the relatives I knew … these are their adult children.
The relatives I remember linger at the edge of the room. They are wrinkled and swollen with age, shadows of themselves, walking with canes and complaining of stiffness.
They ask about my girlfriends, or when I will marry.
I look across the room at my mother, who watches me with red-rimmed eyes. I do what a good son is expected to do.
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