I’ve always hated these things.

The room is humid, full of people dressed in their Sunday Best—though it’s Thursday. The women collect in the center, dabbing at their eyes with inky-smudged handkerchiefs. As I shove through the gaggle, I crinkle my nose at their perfume, a dozen brands, a dozen scents, cheap and gaudy alike, all blending together into one nauseating odor. Between gasping sobs, hushed voices murmur memories that never quite existed the way they recall. I can scarcely hear them over the gentle organ music creeping through the room, hushed by the plush carpet, the black dresses, the sickly-sweet flowers. The clink of ice chips meets the dull crinkle of the plastic Solo cups of bubbly juice in everyone’s hands.

I emerge from the crowd, staring at the box at the head of the room. Its blue-grey metal dully reflects the recessed lighting; its interior, lined by silky white fabric, looks plush, like I could curl up inside with a book—

No. Because it’s not mine, and it’s not that kind of comfort.