My mother’s Aunt Brenda was a quiet woman whose only son died in Vietnam and whose husband died a good ten years before she did. When she did die (1993) a modest funeral was held in our smallish plains city.

Among the usual distant relatives and nosy townspeople who’d gathered at the funeral parlor, one thin, plainly dressed but graceful woman stood out. She walked up to my mother (Brenda’s closest relative along with my uncle Richmond) and introduced herself. “Hello, I’m Michael Learned.”

She then placed a hand on the closed casket and shut her eyes. She then drew her hand to her mouth, kissed the tips of her fingers and touched the casket again and walked away.

Funny thing is, she reeked of pot.