Nana Rose’s funeral felt less like a farewell to a beloved grandmother, but rather like another stage for my mother’s performance.
A cold drizzle fell over the cemetery, making the ground soft and muddy. I stood in the back under a plain black umbrella and wore an old wool coat that I had bought years ago. From there, I watched my mother Linda, who was sitting in the front row, in a black fur coat that had probably cost more than my first car. She swung herself the eyes in
