The Last Sandwich

“You look like you’re waiting for the casket to speak.”

Rafferty says it without looking up, his cloth moving in tight, circular motions over the brass handle of the bier. He is standing three feet away, wiping polish off the wood with a professional detachment that feels like a personal challenge.

I am in the back row of St. Jude’s, staring at the easel where my mother’s picture stood an hour ago. The church smells of lilies and floor wax, the specific scent of a town that knows exactly how to perform grief. I have been back here four times in fifteen years. Each time, the air is thinner, the people louder.