Nick awoke sometime later. Panic raced through his body. Was the funeral over? The coffee was half gone and cold. No one had come for him. Am I really alive? he thought. He rushed to the bedroom, but his Little Shamrock was not there. Checked the bathroom and the living room. No where to be found. She would surely be near him in heaven, whatever type of place that was. My girls couldn't have let me miss the funeral.

So it must have only been hours, or perhaps a day. The last he remembered it was morning and light outside, it was bright out now. So maybe the afternoon, or possibly the next day. One was the day before the funeral, the other only a few hours. He dialed the phone with his thumb, waited, but only got each daughter's voicemail.

He was a practical man, writing obituaries for all those years, so he got dressed for her funeral. His best suit and tie, blue, with a pinstripe blue shirt. Maureen loved the way the blue matched his eyes, made her think of days at the beach, relaxed with a book under an umbrella. The shirt sleeve wouldn't button over his cast, so he rolled it to his elbow and plunged his hand into the suit jacket.

Tears, one by one, snaked their way down his cheeks. They were slow, methodical drops, weaving through stubble and hanging from his chin. Nick didn't notice the way they tickled his skin, the tie was crooked.

Maureen, oh Maureen, my Little Shamrock. The words played in his mind, over and over.

A car horn honked from the street. He looked out the window – a black sedan sat in front of his house. Shelley stepped out into the grass. Time to go to the funeral, where he had to speak, an obituary outloud, for the first time.