There’s my grandmother’s death, before I really knew what death meant. She is the ghost in the background of all of these memories, but I am sure she is much more prominent in my parents’ thoughts. My own thoughts now turn to the last few months, the sight of my grandfather’s diminishment, the awkwardness between us as I grew taller than him and he seemed to shrink into himself, into age. His death was still a surprise—we knew it was coming, but not that particular day. My mother was the one to answer the phone. I didn’t have to hear her words to know something was wrong. She drove to my father’s office to tell him. I wasn’t there. I didn’t see it.

It is my father who looks diminished now. As if when someone close to us dies, we momentarily trade places with them, in the moment right before. And as we get over it, we’re really living their life in reverse, from death to life, from sickness to health.

The fish in all the nearby lakes and rivers will be safe today, because it seems like every fisherman in the state of Maryland is here at the funeral. There are few suits to be seen, and fewer ties. My extended family is here, too—crying cousins, tearful aunts, stoic uncles. My father seems to be taking it the hardest, and he is the magnet for everyone else’s condolences. My mother and I stand at his side, and get nods and pats on the shoulder.

I feel like a complete imposter. I am observing, trying to record as much as I can for Marc’s memories, because I know he is going to want to have been here, is going to want to remember this.

I am not prepared for the open casket, to have Marc’s grandfather right there in front of me when we walk into the chapel. We are in the front row, and I can’t take my eyes off of it. This is what a body looks like with nothing inside. If I could step out of Marc for a moment—if he did not come back in—this is what he would look like. It’s very different from sleeping, no matter how much the undertaker has tried to make it look like sleeping.

Marc’s grandfather grew up in this town, and has been a member of this congregation for his whole life. There’s a lot to be said, and a lot of emotion in the saying of it. Even the preacher seems moved—so used to saying the words, but not for someone who he’s cared about. Marc’s father gets up to speak, and his body seems at war with his sentences—every time he tries to release one, his breath stops, his shoulders seize. Marc’s mother goes up and stands next to him. It looks like he’s going to ask her to read his words for him, but then he decides against it. Instead, he puts away the speech. He talks. He unspools the memories, and sometimes they have knots in them, and sometimes they are frayed, but they are the things he thinks of when he thinks about his father. Around him, the congregation laughs and cries and nods in recognition.

Tears are welling up in my eyes, streaming down my face. At first I don’t understand it, because I don’t really know the man they’re talking about—I don’t know any of the people in this room. I am not a part of this … and that is why I’m crying. Because I am not a part of this, and will never be a part of something like this. I’ve known this for a while, but you can know something for years without it really hitting you. Now it’s hitting me. I will never have a family to grieve for me. I will never have people feel about me the way they feel about Marc’s grandfather. I will not leave the trail of memories that he’s left. No one will ever have known me or what I’ve done. If I die, there will be no body to mark me, no funeral to attend, no burial. If I die, there will be nobody but Rhiannon who will ever know I’ve been here.

I cry because I am so jealous of Marc’s grandfather, because I am jealous of anyone who can make other people care so much.

Even after my father’s done speaking, I am sobbing. When my parents return to the pew, they sit on either side of me, comforting me.

I cry for a little while longer, knowing full well that Marc will remember these as tears for his grandfather, that he will never remember I’ve been here at all.

Such a strange ritual, to send the body into the ground. I am there as they lower him. I am there as we say our prayers. I take my place in the line as the dirt is shoveled onto the coffin.

He will never again have this many people thinking of him at a single time. Even though I never knew him, I wish he were here to see it.

We go back to his house afterward. Soon enough there will be sorting and dispersing, but now it’s the museum backdrop for the exhibition of grief. Stories are told—sometimes the same exact story in different rooms. I don’t know many of the people here, but that’s not a failure of accessing. There were simply more people in Marc’s grandfather’s life than his grandson could comprehend.

After the food and the stories and the consolation, there’s the drinking, and after the drinking, there’s the ride home. Marc’s mother has stayed sober the whole time, so she’s behind the wheel as we make our way back in the darkness. I can’t tell if Marc’s father is asleep or lost in thought.

“It’s been a long day,” Marc’s mother murmurs. Then we listen to the news wrap around itself, repeat at half-hour intervals until we are finally home.

I try to pretend this is my life. I try to pretend these are my parents. But it all feels hollow, because I know better.

Day 6025

The next morning it’s hard to raise my head from the pillow, hard to raise my arms from my sides, hard to raise my body from the bed.

This is because I must weigh at least three hundred pounds.