I'm sitting at my brother's funeral this past winter, and my 4-year-old son keeps passing me his scribbles of rockets and trains. He tugs on my sleeve and whispers commentary about his drawings, and I smile tiredly as the funeral trudges on. It is a wretched experience, to bury a brother. He died at 52 from liver disease. Even more wretched is what the disease is code for: My brother was an alcoholic.
We stand to sing, and through a blur of tears my son's pictures are gorgeous swashes of reds and violets.