Shiva

I am walking around the cul-de-sac, restless, hot, and numb.

They are all inside the house where she grew up, the house that was never my home, and they are mourning in various groups of togetherness.

My mother holds court, repeating stories over and over as her scratchy throat resists, and her voice fades to the post-show rasp of my childhood when the weeks of practice with an uncoordinated choir would finally bear fruit at the price of her anxiety, energy, and vocal chords.

My sister, two years my junior, plays the video of the last coherent moment, reliving it each time she presses play. She lives local, and most of the hundreds of people walking through the door recognize her as Sister of the Deceased.

My sister, three years my senior, is surrounded by childhood friends who traveled overnight to wrap her in the comfort of nostalgia and her favorite grocery doughnuts.

My father is breaking character, leading a group of distinguished community men in song while accepting their mumbled words of comfort and blessing.

My eldest brother is The Boy Who Pretends To Be Fine as he smiles and nods and closes his rolling eyes. He has traveled so far to sit in discomfort, a galaxy away from his roots.

There is someone playing Savior and Successful Son and another slipping into the role of Modern Spirituality and Attention Whore but that show is irrelevant.

My sister, six years my junior, is keeping score, laughing about the painful words of well-meaning comforters now so they will not have power later. She plays Nice with those who can see her and slams the door on those who deny her.

The support group for my Wandering Sister keeps her from floating away, surrounding her at all times and cushioning her from the outside world.

My second to baby sister is in the ground with her baby sister, wrapping her body with her broken heart as she walks the rooms of this empty house filled with all the wrong people.

My baby sister brought us here and left us in the wings while she plays the Main Attraction from her freshly dug grave.

I am walking around the cul-de-sac, restless, hot, and numb.

Someone approaches me.

Excuse me. Do you know where the Shiva is?

I stare for a moment, the sweat on my forehead going cold. Wordlessly, I point to the house where I don’t belong.

Thank you, she says, and her head tilts to the side as she takes a deep breath to steady her unease.

That poor family, she murmurs, and her head shakes and her eyes fill with tears, and she looks at me for comfort.

Yes, I say.

That poor family.