PETER

     The day of the funeral Peter was still nowhere to be found. It was cold and the ground was wet from the heavy rain the night before. Every person from both sides of the family were there. And so many friends from so many chapters of their lives. Peter's brother had flown in from Iraq. He stood clenching his jaw in his Army fatigues and beret behind Peter's wife, Sue, who sat hunched over, rocking, holding her pregnant belly. It was a strange low moan which she made, the same sound she had made when she went into labor with her boy. Her mother put her arm around her and took Sue's hand. Sue slumped into her mother and her mother kissed the top of her head through her veil and rested her cheek upon it, squinting hard against the pain. Sue's father looked over and saw their two white hands clasped together upon Sue's lap. "How could they ever let go?" he thought. He had been sitting erect and motionless, his eyes darting here and there toward any movement, a falling leaf, a squirrel, a bird, anything. The preacher was tall and thin, an Irishman with watery eyes and dry, painful looking skin. He reached up with his long crooked fingers and brushed a few strands of hair across his bald head. He then bit his lip as he stepped forward with his bible beside the small black casket. It was Peter's mother who saw him first. "Petie!" she yelled. Everyone's head turned in unison. Peter's mother shot out of her chair and ran towards her son down the hill through the graves. The preacher clutched the bible to his chest, looking on. Peter was still shirtless and barefoot just as he was when he had heard the news. His skin was bright red and his feet were caked with mud. He was still dragging his little boy's bike behind him, like a hunter with a kill through the cold wet leaves. He stopped when his mother reached him but he gave no response to her embrace. She reached up and grabbed his face. "Look at me!" she said, "Peter, look at me!" He closed his eyes and turned his head as he pushed her away. He put a foot out in front of him and then another one and he continued on. His mother staggered behind him, weeping with a hand cupped over her mouth. "Peter," said Peter's father. "God!" said someone else. Peter approached the coffin. He stopped, his cold body swaying to some sort of rhythm working inside him. The bike finally fell from his hand. Tears streamed down his soldier bother's face. "Peter," said the preacher. Peter stared at the coffin, breathing, shivering, wobbling upon his feet. His breathing got heavier, his hairy chest rising and falling, his flabby belly quivering. "Peter please!" cried Sue, "please!" Peter's father and Sue's father both moved in towards him. "Son," said Sue's father as he reached for Peter's shoulder. Peter turned his head and looked at them. "Peter," said his father.