At the Funeral, Her Daughter Climbed Into the Casket and the Dead Man's Fingers Closed Around Her Hand

"Baby, we have to let go," Renee whispered, reaching into the open casket where her six-year-old was folded over her father's chest.

Willa Calder, navy velvet dress and a white ribbon in her curls, had climbed up the folding steps during the second hymn and no one had stopped her. She was small enough that the funeral director had looked away. She was small enough that Renee, three feet behind her, still believed a quiet word would fix this.

Grant Calder lay in charcoal wool with his jaw set, a plain silver band on his left hand. Fourteen days ago Renee had sat beside his hospital bed and watched that same ring twist loose on his finger as his weight dropped. She had signed the paper the doctor slid across the tray. That was last week. The service was today. The burial was tomorrow morning, hours after the flowers arrived.

Now Willa slid one hand into Grant's open palm, the way she used to slip it into his pocket walking to the car.