Have you ever worn a pair of jeans to a formal event. If you have, you know the awkward feeling I'm thinking of. Except that when I had this feeling it was my mood did not fit the event, not the clothes. Three summers ago, my Dad's closest cousin Mauricio died. He was my god father, but I barely knew the man. The only two memories I have of him aren't the best. One is when I was very little. My family visited him and his family in Maryland. I remember that he had a loud booming voice, a happy face and a heartfelt laugh. The other memory I have of him is when he was in the hospital with cancer. That visit I didn't hear his heartfelt laugh and his voice was no longer booming.


After he died, everyone was upset. My Dad got very quiet and my Aunt Lucy cried a lot. But the one who took his death the hardest was Mauricio's sister, Herta. She was a wreck. It was almost as if part of her had died with her brother. Herta and her husband, Ed, flew from Florida to Montclair for the funeral. Also my thirty year old brother, Christopher, flew in from Colorado. This is where my mood didn't fit. I was thrilled to have all these people at my house. As an only child (practically) I loved coming home to a house full of people. My mood didn't fit because the people who filled my house weren't thrilled to be there. They were there for a funeral of someone they loved. For me though it was a funeral of someone I could hardly say I knew.


While I was happy to have so much company, the people were acting a different then they normally did .

My Dad was quiet, which probably doesn't sound abnormal unless you've met my Dad. My Dad is confident, loud, hilarious, and very embarrassing. Not hearing his voice was like not hearing the rain during a storm. My Aunt Herta was almost missing a piece of her it seemed. She would go upstairs for a sweater and come back twenty minutes later with nothing and ask why she had gone upstairs. My brother acted like himself, completely unfazed by the death. He spent most of his time trying to cheer up our Dad, and watching soccer games. He and I have always gotten a long well. So while everyone, including us was mourning their loss we were also happier to see each other more than once that year like we usually did. My mom was all about people talking it out. She and Herta would sit and talk for hours every day. I would walk into a room and see them. Herta with her usual sad, dazed look that reminded me of a deer in headlights, and my mom listening intently and nodding her head in an understanding way. The most interesting person of all was Herta's husband, Ed. He asked for chap stick in his funny accent almost as soon as he stepped in our house. Most of the time I'm good with accents considering that my dad and all his friends have them. But Ed's I could never quite get over. It was a little bit high pitched with dash of southernness. He told the same stories over and over and over again. But the strangest thing he did was drink a carton of buttermilk each day.


They stayed at my house for six days. Then the funeral day came. It was filled with tears and sadness. The next morning they all left. That was the first time I felt my mood fit.