“We’re ready to begin,” she said, slipping her phone into her purse and dabbing at her eye with one of her sleeves.
“Why don’t you come with me and get seated, and then I’ll usher the guests in after you,” he said.
The pastor took my mother’s hand as he led us toward the front of the chapel and we each took a seat in the second row. While the diaper provided my bottom with a degree of protection from the wooden bench, I was unable to get my back into position where it was comfortable against the pew. As the crowd of mourners made their way into the chapel, I received a firm pinch on my arm, a message from mother that I needed to stop fidgeting.