They buried my dad this week.
Normally, I’d say “we” buried him. But this is nothing like normal.
I was 1,300 miles away, working remotely, at my dining room table.
My sister, her husband, their son? They stood in a church cemetery in Maryland, socially distanced from the pastor, and the grave itself.
My brother and his wife were in the grass on the other side. So were another nephew, and a niece.
And my other brother and his wife? They left separate ends of their house, drove separate cars. At the cemetery, he couldn’t do more than crack open his car window. Quarantined.
Ten people. One funeral. A pandemic-sized hole in our hearts.