We gather in the chapel. Our family’s church sings a capella, without instruments. Instead of standard notation, the hymnals feature shaped notes — diamonds and squares and tapered cones. We sing about roses that never fade, white robes, and streets of gold.
My brother preaches about living with the end in mind.
After the graveside service, I drive away from the country churchyard where my grandparents and many other relatives are buried.
I want, more than anything else, to be with Clyde.
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