Santo had forgotten for a second that he could breathe the air outside. Taxis pulled in and out of the lot as people loaded their suitcases. It was still cold. The sun had that robust mid-winter glare. For the first time in years, he could understand what the people said next to him.

“Home sweet home,” the boy joked.

“How was the flight?” asked his mother.

“Not too long. I slept most of it —”

They stared back at Santo, who suddenly had a cough. Moving on, he walked. The curb was lined with cars. If continued straight, he could take the subway. For a moment too long, he poked at the idea of walking. However, there was a 90% he would be late, possibly miss the entire reason why he came back.

From one door to the next. They swung open. They slid open. Each mechanism of knob or handle was exactly the same. Santo started to count everyone. The most striking contrast was the people who entered and exited. It was the discoloration in their eye bags. Their strangled sillothetes. The lack of click in their steps. One old man hobbled by and Santo had the intrusive thought of pushing him over.

Santo reached another door. It led him to a platform that was still a 30-minute walk from home.

“There it is.” A pit caved a mortar-sized wound in his chest. Adrenaline and anxiety flooded his bloodstream like an icy Gin and Tonic, “It’s going to be a beautiful walk.”

Pulling on a cigarette, he realized he had never learned to parallel park. He stretched his left arm to the sky and his right arm down to the concrete. The smoke carried through the cathedral of leafless trees. If Santo squinted hard enough, he could convince himself there were stars. Of course, there were always stars, but tonight he wanted to see one.

“Now you come to mind,” he joked.

The pit grew. Santo made sure to cross the baseball field. He needed to pass through the frozen grass. He found out his shoe was untied. At the train track, he made sure again that his shoes were tied. That was when a freight train rolled by. He picked up this sick habit of seeing how far he could lean without falling. A slap of wind always washed his face. As the train stomped through, Santo shifted forward. From heel to toe to then tippy-toes. The air was razor cold. He kept his eyes shut.

“I could have done more,” he thought, “Further… further… just a bit more —”

“HEY! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

The last door. She shot out from the mudroom to hug and kiss him all over. Santo was met with a miasma of fresh vanilla and cleaning detergent.

“Hey, Mom! How’s everything been?

Santo sat next to his father in the same chair he always sat. For everything going on, the food was nice to see. That had not changed.

“Mom still got it, no?”

“I see… Dad, it seems like you never stopped.”

“I’ve lost weight.”

“You’re working out?”

“I like-er— you know I’m older. I walk to the station to work… I’m sure you did a lot of walking.”

Santo tried to eat, but it was like jamming a pillow through a pipe.

His mom looked around, “Still jet-lagged? You haven’t said a thing. I want to hear everything.”

“It was cool —”

Sarah laughed, her mousy hair dripping into the red sauce.

Santo continued, “Met a lot of good people — the food, ah, yes… had a lot of good food….”

“Better than your mom’s?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, really? Should I be offended?”

Santo felt it in the hug. She fell into him, “You’ve lost a step.”

“Mom, ignore him,” jeered Joseph, “He sees a new building or two and thinks he’s Bourdain or something.

“What’s something new you’ve seen?”

“What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, w-what I’m asking — trying to catch up.”

“Are you okay?”

It was the way they shrugged, as though their shoulders had blocked their ears and given off an indifferent acceptance.

“You know what’s wrong, Joseph?”

“No, I don’t. From the door —”

“Someone keeps asking ‘what’s wrong’ and I keep having to say ‘no, nothing’s wrong’ but since I’m being check-mated into having to say what you want to hear I will say something is wrong.”

“So… something is wrong?” Angelica chimed in.

“You’re disgusting.”

“Can we all just be nice to each other?” Mom pleaded, looking down the table, “Especially right now.”

Santo’s pit caught him mid-breath. Sarah’s hair still had sauce on it. Looking down, he realized there were neckbones.

“I am just a little tired. My bad… how are you doing, Dad?”

“Better… I mean, he was old. You can’t live forever, but still… death is death.”

“How old was grandpa?” Sarah asked

“He would’ve been 95 in June.”

“So he was 94?”

“He did well with it,” added Santo, “Is he still a name at Ignautius?”

“Don’t you see on the wall at the outpatient center?”

“It’s his picture,” Dad corrected, “But I think Aunt Claire is bringing it tomorrow.”

“What time do we need to be ready?”

Dad looked at Mom, who guessed, “Eight?”

Joseph twiddled his fork, “Santo, are you ready?”

“The only thing I brought was my suit.”

“Nothing else? Aren’t you —”

“I mean your speech.”

“Speech —”

“Eugology.”

“Me?”

Dad dropped his hands on the table, “Oh, you gotta be kidding.”

“No, no — I have the speech ready —”

“You do?” Joseph instigated.

“Yes, I —”

“How come you only brought your suit?” inquired Sarah.

“For the funeral.”

“You only brought your suit.”

“Yes, Mom, I brought my suit.”

“Only your suit.”

“Okay, how many times is this going to be —”

“Grandpa explicitly wanted you.”

“Do you have a speech ready?”

“I have everything ready.”

“You know how many people are going to be there?”

“Of course —”

“You do?”

“Interesting because you weren’t here for the planning.”

“Joe, how could I be?

“By being here,” Sarah was catching on, “Will they still know his name?”

“They’ll remember it.”

“Look at you!”

“So, you are going to make Grandpa’s funeral all about you?”

“If that’s what he wanted.”

“Dad, do you hear this?”

“Santo, are you alright?”

“Yes-s,” the pit had sprouted, “You know what I meant.”

Joseph sat back, taunting, “We actually did not. No one has understood anything about you since you arrived.”

“Came we hear it right now?”

“Sarah, cut it out.”

She looked to Dad, “Why did Grandpa choose Santi?”

“Why wouldn’t he —”

“Oh, come off it, Dad. Santi, when was the last time you saw Grandpa?”

He was in a chair staring outside with his back to the TV. The living room smelled like bacon and onion cheese pizza. The sun had spread across that room, exposing every bit of dust in that wood-paneled room. To his right, there was a stack of unopened newspapers. He was wearing Velcro shoes unstrapped. The pants and shirts engulfed him like a blanket. Between his breaths, I imagined him somehow falling through the chair cushion.

“What have you been up to, Grandpa?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“At my age, there is not much to do.”

“At least go outside.”

“I will water my plants, but the doctor says that with my balance, I should be careful.”

There was an unsightly hydrangea bush drier than his elbows beside the door. That really angered me. However, it struck me then why I was there.

“What is your favorite color?”

“Pardon,” he faced me.

“Your favorite color. My name is purple – a rich, dark purple.”

“Blue. Navy blue.”

“Do you have a favorite shape?”

“I like… circles.”

“Circles are cool. I’m more of a trapezoid guy —”

“So you are off,” his voice croaked.

I wanted to talk to him like a friend, but I couldn’t. There were always eggshells around him. We hear of the lives he saved, the great he did at Ignatius — how even till the end he could remember the address of his first girlfriend. Though he did stop. I think it was when Grandma died. I get it, but you have to go all the way.

“Yeah, I leave Monday morning.”

“What for?”

Weightlessly, the words fluttered out, “To see. I like seeing things.”

“You have TV, don’t you?”

“A screen from someone else and your own eyes are the same thing?”

“Ah yeah, no I get it… I would like to see something new.

“You can after I get back.”

The chair nearly snapped in half as Grandpa threw himself back in laughter.

After some time, “Santo, you’ve got greed and arrogance in you.”

“Is there anything wrong with that?”

“I don’t know… I will have to think about it.”

I asked to play chess with him. He said he didn’t know how to play.

“Are you reading?”

“It makes me sleepy now. I’m old, remember.”

He really did do nothing. So, I got up and shook Grandpa’s hand, “I will prove you wrong.”

“What?”

“Love you. But you don’t believe.”

“Believe in what?”

“I’ll show you in person when I’m back.”

Santo looked up and he was not sure if he was speaking English. The pit was at the beak of his lips.

“I don’t know… to be frank, I stopped calling him — really, I completely forgot. He was dead — philosophically to me.”

Pews groaned.

“W-what I mean is that — you can’t stop living. That’s what death is for. So, now we are here.

Joseph and Sarah were shaking their head. Mom covered her face. Dad seemed to be grabbing at every word.

“He was great until the end. Let’s face it. And you are the beginning, middle, and end. I appreciate — I love Grandpa b-but,” it was out of his mouth, “How do you not know how to play chess?”

The pit dissolved into thin air. Under that warm light, as his eyes started to go and everything blended into one, it was clear.

“I did not prove anything.”

The church doors opened, and a freezing wind pecked through. The organ played while a grand procession of penguins marched out. Santo remembered then that he had a flight to catch.