The Funeral Feast

Mara stood at the kitchen counter, forcing a handful of raw spinach into the blender. The funeral was in three hours, and she'd somehow volunteered to cater the reception—a responsibility that now seemed absurd. Her hands shook as she reached for her phone, needing to call her oldest friend, but the screen lit up with a message from David instead. Not now. Not today.

She pressed her palm against the cold granite, trying to ground herself. The house felt too quiet without the rhythmic thumping of Buster's tail against the floorboards. Her golden retriever had been put down two weeks ago, and the silence he'd left behind was louder than any bark. David had suggested they get another dog immediately—he was practical like that—but Mara couldn't imagine opening her heart to another creature so soon.

In the living room, David's goldfish circled its bowl in endless, translucent loops. He'd won it at a carnival three years ago, some drunken night when they were still happy enough to win things together. The fish had outlasted their marriage.

"You're making that face again," David said from the doorway. He looked exhausted, tie already knotted too tight. "The one that says you're somewhere else."

"I'm here," she lied. "Just thinking about Sarah."

"Sarah's dead, Mara. She's not coming back." His voice cracked on the name. Sarah had been David's sister, Mara's best friend, the glue that had held their fragile circle together through addiction and recovery and all the ugly years between. The overdose had been peaceful, they said. As if peace could be measured in milligrams.

Mara dumped the blended spinach into a bowl, added olive oil and lemon juice without measuring. "I know she's not coming back. But we still have to feed everyone who came to say goodbye to her."

David crossed the room and wrapped his arms around her from behind. For a moment, she let herself lean back into him, breathing in the familiar scent of his soap. "We're going to be okay," he whispered into her hair. "I know we are."

She turned in his arms and studied his face really looked at him— tired and broken and still trying. "Are we?" she asked. "Or are we just two people who happened to lose the same person?"

David didn't answer. He just held her tighter while, somewhere in the distance, church bells began to ring.