Just in Case Anyone Comes
We didn't expect much of a turnout, if I'm honest, and it shames me a little to write that now.
"She kept to herself, really," said the woman planning the service, a hospice volunteer none of us had met before Tuesday, when she asked how many chairs to set up. Fifty, we told her. Generous, we thought, for a widow whose only visitors — as far as any of us actually knew — were the people she visited herself, one loaf at a time. We put the notice in the free paper. We taped a flyer to the corkboard outside the grocery store. Odalys wrote something short and warm for the obituary column and cried typing it, which surprised her more than it surprised me.
I kept thinking about the notebooks, still sitting in that tin on my kitchen counter because none of us had known what to do with them, and had agreed, without really discussing it, to leave them alone until after the service. Grief admin first. Mysteries later.
Birdie asked if we could bring bread to the funeral, "because that's her thing," and Odalys said that was a lovely idea and spent Thursday night baking a loaf that came out lopsided and a little raw in the middle, and we agreed not to mention that to anyone.
The morning of the service was overcast, the kind of grey that makes a small chapel parking lot look smaller. I got there early to help with chairs. Fifty of them, in six rows, spaced with the particular optimism of people who expect to need fewer.
By eight forty, the lot was full.
By eight fifty, cars were parked on both sides of the street outside, doubled up, hazards blinking, and people were walking in from two blocks away — people I didn't recognize, people in suits that didn't belong to anyone on our street, an elderly man being helped from a car with Ohio plates, a woman crying before she'd even reached the door.
The hospice volunteer looked at me, chairs still stacked in my arms, and said, "I think we're going to need more."