I have always had a hard time with death. When I was a boy, I caught a praying mantis and kept it in a plastic milk jug. Although it refused to eat, I kept feeding it crickets, even days after the praying mantis stopped moving. When my mother finally threw the jug away, dozens of crickets hopped around the dried out mantis inside.

When the old Chrysler died, I kept going to junkyards and old service stations until I found all the pieces. The repairs took years. Every time another part rusted out, I added it to the list. That list got longer and shorter, but I never seemed to check off the last things.

After your funeral, women kept walking up to me and saying I should be happy because you were with God now. I wasn’t happy, and I wanted to tell them I hadn’t slept in days, that I cried when I found the earring you lost years ago under the sink but not when they lowered you into the ground. I knew they really wanted to say, “I’m sad, too.” I didn’t recognize most of them. Your friends.