The 13th Psalm

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The coffin is too small.

That's the first thing I notice.

Not the flowers. Not the people. Not the pastor reading

words like he's memorized pain and spit it out in cliches.

Just the box. Closed. Plain. Wood-grained like that makes it

softer.

It doesn't.

I sit in the front row, knees locked, hands folded like I care

what happens next. Mom hasn't blinked in twenty minutes.

Her mouth keeps twitching, like she's trying to speak through

shock. Like if she says something-anything-it might bring

him back.

It won't.