The Gettysburg Review

Volume 33:4

So much to remember for a wedding, or perhaps there is nothing to remember except this, which my father drilled into me all week: Your mother is dead. Your mother is dead. If anyone asks—and they will!—your mother, your neat, warm mother, whom you insist on remembering, is dead.

I know that she is not. I know it. But I don’t tell anyone.