Memories of Another Day [antikvár]

The last time I saw my father, he was lying quietly on his back in his coffin, his eyes closed, an unaccustomed blandness on his strong features, his thick white hair and heavy eyebrows neatly brushed. I stood there in the silence of the funeral chapel staring down at him. There was something wrong. All wrong. After a moment I realized what it was. My father had never slept on his back. Not once in all the years I knew him. Usually my father slept balanced on his side, his barrel chest and big belly sinking into the mattress, one arm thrown over his eyes to shield them from the light, a scowl of concentration fierce even in sleep on his face. Now there was nothing there. Not even the hatred of the morning that would come to tear him from his private world. Then the lid of the coffin came down and I never saw him again. I was flooded with a sense of relief. It was over. I was free. I tore my eyes away from the burnished copper-and-mahogany coffin and looked up. The minister gestured for us to leave. I started off. My brother, D.J., short for Daniel, Junior, pulled me back. "Take your mother's arm," he whispered hoarsely.