“You know, when she was alive,” Bill says, “I wrote all these eulogies for her. In my head. I rehearsed it.” I nod. I’ve done that, too. For Angie. For my dad. Even my mom. “But then she died for real, and I didn’t even have a funeral. I didn’t write an obit. I just buried her. To be done with it.”
Geezus. Truth
