Before the funeral, he is curled up in a little ball on his daughter’s bed. Outside, Saturday happens. Lawnmowers whine, trucks bang by; his subdivision is subdivided.
I’m popping popcorn. Standing at the stove, I slowly turn the little handle on our ancient popper as one or two kernels escape the vat. It’s unusual for me to be doing this at this hour, 4:30 in the evening. As the kernels twirl, the emotions swirl behind me.