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In movies, the moment of learning a loved one is dead and the funeral scene are bridged by a tasteful fade to black. How convenient, to blink and miss the in-between.
There is a lot of paperwork involved in fostering. There is a lot of paperwork involved in death. At the station, at the hospital. Read this. Sign here, and here, and here. Take this certificate. Sign here. And here.
Make a hundred outrageous decisions, like "Do we want our son buried or cremated?" and "Should we lie to people about how he died?".
Choose a funeral home, choose a casket, choose the memorial picture, arrange catering—as if it were a party, for God's sake.
Buy flowers. Beg friends to come.
Pay for this and this and this. Make calls and cross things off your to-do list. Know there's more down the line: his will, his apartment, his bank account.
Go to the supermarket, of all the mundane, ridiculous things.
Cry at the supermarket.
Iron your black dress. Do your hair and make-up.
Sit in traffic.
Say thank you for coming.
Tire of the service, tire of condolences.
Wait for Richard’s voice, his outstretched hand:
"Let's go home, Cass.”