The Funeral
I have this memory: He is holding a baby in his arms, trying to breath life into its little blue body. He doesn't succeed; and I think that hit him harder than he will ever admit, or understand. I remember this baby's funeral - the small casket, the hushed tones, and the wee body in white. Sometimes, considering the fraidy-cat type my grandmother is, I wonder why I was taken to that funeral. I was five years old, the man was my uncle, and he was trying to give mouth-to-mouth to a neighbour's baby that had stopped breathing in its sleep.