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Show Go Love/170 23. Funeral morning, O.W. meets us at the front door, fussing with an IceLand tietack He's dressed in a dark blue suit that Mama picked out two months back before the surgery that she was convinced would kill her. A Cadillac ticks in the driveway, a black shiny one. It's the sort of morning when, back in Utah, a diamondback will wind cross my path, and when I speak to it, when I say, "Hello brother rattlesnake," the thing'll yawn open its mouth, unfurl fangs and strike the air between us. "Good morning." Renee says it after a few seconds. The tie-tack's got both O.W.'s hands The sun shines in on his face, on the pink scar from the night Mama called out. I smell donuts, black coffee and flowers He says, "Morning," and I can tell he's seen more of it than me. Tucked in my hind pocket, Mama's eulogy, handwritten at sunrise under the eight-sided hotel gazebo. "How was it?" I ask. Overnight, I learned that Mama'd appointed Dora to notify folk west of the Mississippi should any harm come her way. This included the Arizona Washers, for whom Davey was the family representative. I keep seeing him, the look on his face when the casket |
