The funeral home smelled of industrial floor wax and cheap carnations.

It was one o’clock Tuesday afternoon.

The private family viewing was set for exactly one hour before the main service.

I sat in the corner of the little waiting room.

The walls were papered in pale green that was peeling near the baseboards.

At five to one, a young funeral director in a dark suit opened the door.

He was carrying a silver tray with a plastic pitcher on it.

He asked whether I’d like a glass of water or whether he should open the velvet curtain so I could see the flower arrangements.