The gravedigger at my father’s funeral pulled me aside, slipped an old brass key into my palm, and whispered that the coffin being lowered into the ground was empty. What was most peculiar, though, was not that my father had paid to have his own burial staged, but rather the warning that accompanied it: “Don’t let your husband know.” Now go to room 20.
I had just finished delivering Dad’s eulogy at Austin Memorial Park Cemetery when the gravedigger’s calloused hand closed around my arm. The words I had barely managed to speak without …
The gravedigger at my father’s funeral pulled me aside, slipped an old brass key into my palm, and whispered that the coffin being lowered into the ground was empty. What was most peculiar, though, was not that my father had paid to have his own burial staged, but rather the warning that accompanied it: “Don’t let your husband know.” Now go to room 20. Read More