One of my friends, not my best friend, but a friend nonetheless, twenty-four-year-old Peter Notthingham, Jonah’s twin, stands at the front of the Episcopalian church. He’s positioned over Jonah’s mahogany and brass casket. He can barely talk about a time when he was a boy and played with his brother: Hot Wheels, Super Mario Brothers, football, and a list of other activities. Tears roll down his pink, slick-wet cheeks and along the swollen cords of his neck. He sways to the left and right, looks as if he’s going to pass out, possibly dehydrated. Hefty Uncle Jeff, Bert’s brother, runs up to his nephew’s side and holds one palm to Peter’s back and another palm against his side, keeping him upright. Peter continues to mumble about watching Star Wars movies with Jonah, going to Penguins games,
