All I wanted when he died was to scream. My family restrained me with an elbow between my shoulder blades and a fistful of my hair and slammed me to the wall of the trauma room as if I were responsible or forced my nose into the metaphorical stink of it all. Or. They stroked my head and cooed their little sounds of peace until my blood unboiled. It was their collective opinion that this was not the time, nor was the hospital, nor was the funeral home, the place for my hysterics. Men die was their position. The doctors and those masquerading as doctors impose a frank decorum to serve the natural course of things. Each life plays out of a length of twine, brother. Some snap early; some fray. Yours is still playing out. His was the length it was meant to be, because it was the length it was. You will restrain yourself, or submit to restraint, or be placed in restraints as a matter of course. We have a service to conduct. Friends have gathered to pay their respects. They require and they shall have the somber music Dad requested. Your selfish outburst, if you have it here, will play badly and reflect badly on us all. Escort yourself instead to the powder room tucked between the rooms stuffed with other families’ corpses; sputter your protests there and blow your nose in your hand. Your eulogy will be brief and respectful, with allowances for your notorious irreverence, it may poke gentle fun at the departed and startle the mourners into reluctant laughter, but you will not scream.  Back in these rooms though, my outbursts are counted, measured, studied and admired. I am a mild case within these walls where, when I’m not screaming, they worry.

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