The title of this Bob Dylan classic is fundamentally sad. While it takes a lot to make us laugh, it takes something as simple and as mundane as a train and its consequent associations,to make us cry. I shed so many tears during this time in my life, that I found it necessary to treasure the moments in which I did find humor, and laughter would come.

I found my legs propelling my body through the increasingly dense crowd. I was moving to gain a better line of vision so that I might bear witness to the next surprise that was waiting.I spotted my grandmother and my aunt standing in the front of the room, flanked at their sides by a priest?! For the love! Was there anyone involved in the planning of this viewing that actually knew my father and respected his wishes? My father had never spoken of religious affiliations, he did not sit and pray for things, and apart from my wedding I had never actually seen my father in a church. But yet here I was, standing at his viewing with a previously open casket and now a priest.

My grandmother motioned for me to join her to which I shook my head in polite decline; as polite as I could muster to the woman who was responsible for my tortured last image of my father that was now ingrained in my thoughts and who had now brought yet another unwelcome surprise. She tried to get Kim to join her as well. “I’m Lutheran” she responded curtly. Damn! Why didn’t I think of something like that? I would convert in this moment just to avoid the looks I was getting from the crowd.

Finding no one to join their little impromptu show, the priest began leading the group in a prayer. He then commented on some of the characteristics of my father’s personality saying he was such a “giving soul.” Of course this was all true, but it angered me to hear it from a strangers mouth. It wasn’t but a few moments of him speaking when he offered the floor to anyone who wanted to speak about my father; crickets. I am sure this was not because they all didn’t have wonderful things to say, many of them had shared those with me this evening already. But rather the fact that was not only unexpected, but kind of inappropriate, and anyone who had any true sense of my true father was thinking the same thing I was “why the fuck is there a priest here?”

The priest asked the group again for someone to share a memory or a thought, all the while stating it was to make my grandmother smile at kind words about her son; the true reason had displayed itself. Still, crickets. I am pretty sure the priest was about to give up on any engagement from this crowd when from somewhere in the back a man’s voice bellowed “Got any Bob Dylan?” A light laughter erupted from the crowd and I could see the smiles on the faces of everyone he loved; I could even feel a small smile begin to spread across my own face. Who said that? And why wasn’t this guy up here leading us in the walk down memory lane? This person clearly knew exactly who my father was.

With that modd lifting comment the crowd began to disperse back into their pods of conversation. Many people came to say goodbye and give another hug, or handshake or offer more condolences. I had become numb to all of it at this point and was offering up the shy smiles and “thank you’s” where necessary. As the crowd thinned I looked around for McCrabbed, not because I wanted to see her, but because I needed to watch what the evil little wench was going to do next. That old saying “keep your friends close and your enemies closer.” This bitch was going to need to be strapped to by hip, or the back of car; I hadn’t decided yet. McCrabben was no where in sight. I imagined she must have finally decided she had caused all of the destruction she could for one day and retreated to her lair (the term “home” is reserved for people with some sense of dignity; McCrabben most definitely occupied a lair).

I found my Mom, Aunt Becky and other supporters a joined their conversation. At this point almost the entire room was clear and Kiera was wandering around taking random flowers from the arrangements; kids. Mimi had invited some of the out of town visitors back to her house for coffee and dessert; Ms. Manners she was. I pulled my mom aside and told her I wasn’t really up for any more conversation that evening. The thought of sitting around and having people either talk about my Dad or dance around the subject was just too strenuous on my mind in its current state.

“I understand Fib, but you can’t go back to Mimi’s and just go to bed with a house full of guests.” my mom explained gently. (Ms. Manners had a daughter)

“I know,” I told her. “I think I am going to catch a ride with my friend and hang at her hose for a bit. She can bring me back when the house crowd dies down.” I forced a reassuring smile to spread across my lips in an effort to ease any of my mother’s concerns. I don’t think it was foolproof, but it must have sufficed because my mom was wrapping me in her arms and whispering in my ear to be safe. “Always Mom” I stated, pulling away from her embrace to look her directly in the eyes. “Always.” In the last few days it had been more difficult than usual to leave her, even for just an hour or so. I wondered if this was a feeling that would pass with time and worried that it wasn’t.

Our embrace was interrupted by a heavy, powerful pounding accompanied by some bellowing cries. I could barely make out the words other than “why” and “how could you.” The pounding was persistent and sounded as if it was coming from….holy shit!  As my eyes followed the noise, I finally settled on the source, my Dad’s friend Frank (I recognized him from a few brief introductions). The pounding was his large Italian fists laying all of their might into the casket, and the horrible cries were audible through his sobs. Was this a fucking joke? Who brought this guy? And what exactly was going through his mind at the current moment? Listen guy, if I have to hold it together at my dead father’s viewing with his corrupt ex-whatever she was reeking havoc on every moment, then surely you could find it within your extra large Italian frame to perhaps NOT beat the shit out of the casket. Just a thought. His outrageous outburst was calmed by a combination of funeral goers and the director. I turned to look at my mom, with my jaw probably open wide enough to stash a grapefruit in, or a small animal (whichever you fancy). “Everyone grieves differently” she said in her usual calm tone. Ya okay, thanks Dalai.

My friend materialized at my side as if she could hear my thoughts screaming that I was ready to get the hell out of here. She headed out to start the car and I told her I would be right out. The room, empty now, seemed more dismal than ever. I stood in the silence for a moment, half expecting to hear my father’s voice, half expecting Bob Dylan to walk in (it had been one of those days). I starred at the casket, the beautifully crafted wood that now provided temporary shelter to the body of my father. I so desperately wanted to call it a box, to dismiss the thought of anything more and to turn and walk away without any desire to look back; I wanted these things but I couldn’t achieve them; not in this moment. In this moment I was forced to finally recognize the reality of my current situation, the reality of how drastically my life had changed; forever. I walked slowly toward the casket, feeling driven by a need to gain some small sense of understanding. Someone had removed the blanket of cascading flowers that Kiera and I had picked, undoubtedly a good doing family member looking to save a memory for us. And now what was left was just the casket; just some wood and lining between myself and my father. As I reached out my hand to graze the top of the smooth, elegant wood I could hear his voice in my head repeating those profound words that I knew were meant for me, in this moment.“Just when I think I have learned the way to live, my life changes and I am left the same as I began. The more things change the more I am the same. There will never be a means to ends, only means; and I am means. I am what I started with, and when it is all over I will be all that is left of me.”

“I am means”, I thought to myself; “my life has changed, but I am means. I don’t need an “end” to fight for, I need the right here right now answers.” I ran my fingers over the intricate scroll work of the casket. For the first time in many days I felt that I had gained a small understanding of my future as based on current events. “You always knew what to say,” I whispered “or rather write.” I lightly kissed the palm of my hand and placed it on the top of the casket where I imaged his forehead would be. Don’t worry Dad, I am going to figure this all out; for everyone.

I quickly turned and started my retreat to the door. I willed myself to keep my eyes forward, knowing if I looked back there was nothing to stop me from laying on top of that casket and crying until there were no tears left to shed; And I am pretty sure the funeral director would see that as a faux-pas. I grabbed my coat and headed to the parking lot to meet my friend. Spotting her car I trudged across the parking lot to get in. I no longer cared about wet stocking feet. As I plopped down in the passengers seat I looked over at her with a little smirk painted on my face. “Are you up for some more detective work?” I asked her. Let’s get a bottle of wine and a computer, we have some digging to do. My friend nodded with approval, “it’s your world girl, I’m just living in it.” It was my world at the moment I guess, and now that his was “all over” I was determined to find out “all that was left of him.”