How Ya Doin?

Maybe it’s because I wasn’t overly emotional that the question kept being asked. ..How are you doing?

A question as loaded as a gangster’s gun.

“I’m fine, but it won’t last,” I want to say. My dad was one of the good ones. If you’d known him, you’d never want him to leave. The likeable kind, the kind you enjoy having around. Five years ago in his near death experience, I knew he wouldn’t be an easy one to let go of. There was never going to be a good time to see him go.
My brother noted mid-service that no one in our family was crying. We joked about it. Should we laugh until we cry? Should we weep tears of joy?
I wished he hadn’t said it. Right then, I noticed Alan had a faraway look on his face and I tried handing him a packet of tissues.
Neil shook his head adamantly and gave them back to me. He turned to Alan and said something. I noticed Alan snapped out of it and looked around. It turns out Neil was partly responsible for some of the boys not crying. Whenever their eyes started to wad up or their lip began quivering, he’d speak up.
“We’re not having any of that. Don’t even start.”
I reminded him that he was the youngest and no one had to listen to him. But I didn’t cry there either. I chose to pretend that Dad was somewhere in the back of the room and everything was fine. I could always cry later. And I knew I would. Maybe crying is too private a thing. It certainly has become so for me. Even though we were at a funeral and if ever there was a perfectly legitimate time to jerk tears, this was prime, I could no more cry than squeeze water out of dust.
Adam wanted to turn the golden key, open Dad’s burnished cherry-wood box and slip his cell phone in. Then have someone call the phone.
“Why?” I wanted to know, smiling at the irreverence of it. “He isn’t going to answer it.”
“Because my ringer is actually a recording of full-blast laughing.”
I thought it would be funny but hoped he wouldn’t do it. Maybe dad would appreciate the humor of it. Everyone had gathered for the service by then. Undoubtedly Dad’s wife Mary Ann wouldn’t have understood the humor. Publicly, we’re the type that laughs instead of crying. Only because it’s socially acceptable to be seen laughing, your sinuses don’t block up and you never have to use a hankie.
We felt spectacle enough walking into a church where we’d been discussed but rarely present. I was never more keenly aware of being in the limelight than when we lined up for photos and people we didn’t know began shooting along with our spouses. I hated for this. I felt like an accidental celebrity. Adam opted not to draw any more attention to us.