Yom Kippur as Manifest in an Approaching Dorsal Fin by Adam Byrn Tritt

of such difficulty
    for him.
    I am shocked. How does a parent not men-
    tion their children? In forty-two years? My
    tears dry. They are used up. I am empty and,
    suddenly, much more alone.
    The backhoe is over the grave, the lid,
    swinging, guided by workers, descends and
    my father talks to the men in the black suits
    about the guarantee of watertightness of the
    vault. They explain there is no such guaran-
    tee. There never was one and especially not
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    in Florida. Gaskets? No. Seal? No. His face
    drops. He wants her sealed and safe.
    Permanent.
    I think fallout shelter. I think Ziplock.
    Tupperware.
    One blue work shirt leans over to adjust the
    top so it lowers just right. He jumps into the
    vault to undo the chains and the backhoe
    retreats, beeping.
    As it does, the driver misses the plywood
    and runs over plaque after plaque, hitting the
    corners, pressing them into the ground as
    they pop catercornered into the air one after
    another until the row becomes a line of
    bronze diagonals. I had been doing my best
    not to step on the head-plaques.
    Now comes the marble cover. It too is
    brought over at the expense of plaques and
    noise and I watch it put into place, positioned
    perfectly before I walk away. All is done.
    Erika will drive the van back. My mother
    will ride with Lee. I have the kids. All back to my grandfather’s house. Twelve-thirty.
    Once back, Erika is busy putting the food
    out, all cakes and sweets. I was told I need not bring anything. Nothing was needed or
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    wanted. Food is supposed to be supplied for
    the people sitting shiva. I should have brought
    food anyway.
    Here are cakes. Cookies. Breads and crack-
    ers. No food to sustain. Here are also card-
    board boxes printed to look like wooden
    benches for the family to sit on. Within the
    hour my father has crushed one under him.
    Cakes, cookies, and breads.
    My brother walks by me, asks quickly, qui-
    etly for whom the funeral we attended was
    for. He did not know that woman either. He
    walks on.
    We talk. I introduce my wife to Arial and
    they talk shop at the table about their prac-
    tices, laws, medicine, and get along well. There is wine and my aunt drinks one, two three
    cups nearly immediately. I know this because
    she counted them out loud and had five
    within the next two hours. It showed.
    Erika is busy, stays busy, out of the way. The
    siblings have moved to the far, deep corner of
    the kitchen and are discussing in hushes. We
    talk with the cousins. There are others.
    Soon, my aunt is drunk, the conversation
    is loud, my wife and children are hungry. It
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    is nearly five in the afternoon. I say my good-
    byes. Hug my mother, my father. Take my
    cousin’s email addresses and phone numbers,
    thank Irwin, and say goodbye to Erika. We
    head to Lee’s sisters where we will spend the
    night.
    We change. Where to go for dinner? The
    Whale’s Rib in Lighthouse Point, but five
    minutes away from the house. It is crowded,
    inexpensive, comfortable and, I think, what
    we need this evening. We sit, wait for our
    table and talk.
    I ask Lee questions. I ask how parents
    neglect to ever tell relatives about their chil-
    dren, how a grandparent treats some grand-
    children well and leaves others ignored.
    I tell her, today, I feel cut loose. Today, I
    have less of a family behind me. Today, less
    of a family in my past, that fewer people care.
    I feel I was deluded. I feel the family I have
    chosen, a blessing, and those I was born with
    . . . I do not finish. I do not know how I feel.
    Maybe I do and don’t want to say.
    I know my father as weak. Did he ever talk
    about the lack of parity? He seemed, always,
    to simply accept all as it was, to question
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    nothing his family did. Perhaps this is unfair.
    I don’t know. I have been undefended,
    unmentioned, unknown. As though I was not
    there.
    We sit. Lee talks to me and I am glad of it.
    I listen closely and ask her