Rob S. Friedman
February 2025
After the Burial
• Nominated for Best of the Net
Back at the house, my aunt had covered the mirror above the mantle where his relics were on display.
Mourners strained to see what isn’t. Lost in memories — the essential and the out of place — their fingertips ran across the arms of threadbare couches.
The women who knew this kitchen best continued to speak in hushed, graveside voices and move hesitantly around each other.
The house was unusually cool, cool like the earth that each of us had shovelled back into the pit.
We shared a chilly weariness, standing by the front door, winter coats on our arms, pressing against all of what is and what is not.
Rob S. Friedman 