Read My Fight / Your Fight for Free Online

car. He rolled up the window. He sat back in his seat. He closed his eyes. He went to sleep.
    A few hours later, a policeman showed up at our door. My mom and the officer spoke in hushed voices in the entryway for a few minutes. When my mom came back into the living room, she sat us down on the living room couch. From the look on her face I knew it was something serious. Jen and I glanced at each other, making that silent sibling eye contact that says, “Do you know what this is all about? No, me neither.”
    â€œDad went to heaven,” my mom said. For the first time in my life, my mother started to cry. I don’t know what she said next. The room was spinning too fast.
    Everything in my life from those words on is part of the after .
    I tried to stand up. I wanted to get away. I needed to leave the room, to leave the moment, but I felt my legs collapsing under me. It was as if they couldn’t bear my weight. Everything that followed is a haze.
    Maria had been out of town visiting family and was rushed home.
    In the hours and days that followed, our house was filled with people. Some stayed the night, helping my mom and us. Some just dropped off food. There were so many casseroles and everyone whispered, they seemed to think that was the appropriate thing to do. In a hushed voice, I heard one woman question whether Dad could have a Catholic service even though he committed suicide. The priest never hesitated. “Funerals are about the living,” he said. “The dead are at peace with God.”
    The funeral home director was married to my second-grade teacher, Mrs. Lisko. She was with her husband when he came to discuss service and burial details. It was weird seeing her in my house.
    I remember sitting with Jennifer and Maria on the stairs and overhearing as he asked my mom what kind of coffin Dad wanted.
    â€œI don’t think he cares,” my mom said. “He’s dead.”
    Mom tried not to cry in front of us kids. She would come out of her bedroom, her eyes red and puffy. Maria and I cried a lot. I cried so hard I felt like I was going to run out of tears. But Jennifer refused to cry. I looked at her and wished that I could stop. I told myself to pretend he was on a long business trip.
    The night before the funeral, we sat in the funeral home parlor. The place was nearly empty; most visitors had left for the evening and it was quiet.
    A woman I didn’t know told my sisters and me that he looked peaceful and walked out.
    I looked into the coffin. My dad was lying there, looking like my dad. His eyes were closed, but he didn’t look like he was sleeping. His mouth, under his mustache, had been set in such a smile that it looked like he were about to laugh, as though he were playing a trick and the anticipation had become too much and he was about to spring up from the coffin and burst into laughter. I waited. I watched the coffin. I prayed for that moment even after my mom took me by the hand and led me away.
    The service was a Catholic mass. The un-air-conditioned church was hot in mid-August. We sat in the front pew. I heard the priest talking at the altar, but was unable to focus on his words. A fly buzzed over the casket. It landed on my dad’s nose. I wanted to jump up and shoo it away, but my mom was holding my hand too tightly. I hated that fly.
    We rode to the cemetery in a white limousine. Stepping out of the car with its tinted windows, I shielded my eyes in the sunlight. I had never been to a funeral before, but always imagined them occurring on dark rainy days. Instead, it was muggy and the sun was beating down. I stood, sweating, in the black dress that had been bought for his funeral. I tried to fan myself with my hand, as if it would make any difference. It was the kind of day where my dad would have turned on the sprinkler for us to run through. But he was dead.
    My dad received a military burial because of his service in the Army. A soldier played taps on a