Seventeen
A WEEK LATER, I’M STANDING by the graveside of Rachel Watson, watching as they slowly lower her casket in the ground.
Standing with me are the members of her family. Her father stands with his arm around his wife. Mrs. Watson wears a black dress and is standing looking down at the casket. She’s been dry-eyed the entire day, sitting stoically through the funeral mass and saying nothing during the graveside service. Mr. Watson stands quietly, every so often wiping a tear away. Rebecca, also in black, stands with her husband, a white handkerchief clasped in her hand, every so often wiping tears from her eyes. Her grief is in stark contrast to her mother's self-control. Win Myer looks desolate, a man bereft but using every ounce of strength to keep from showing it.
I say the final
