The Witness Line
The nine were:
Me.
Odessa Krammes and a man from the cemetery.
Damaris Fong, who was his caseworker at the shelter on Currie Avenue and who had known him for three years and who cried more than I did.
Rochelle Amankwah, the hospice nurse, who came on her day off.
Binta from the coffee cart, who shut for two hours on a Friday morning in January, which I have estimated cost her about two hundred and forty dollars, and who would not discuss it.
Two men from the shelter whose names I got and have lost, one of whom brought a folding stool and set it up at the graveside and left it there, which the cemetery removed the following week and which I have never asked about.
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