how we mourn now

Right inside the funeral home, as soon as I walk into the foyer, there is a small sign.

Due to health concerns, please exit the funeral home as soon as you are done paying your respects. Please refrain from hugging, kissing, and shaking hands with other mourners.

I am standing in a line to get into the room where my cousin lies in repose. A funeral home employee stands guard at the entrance to the room, counting how many people are there, making sure that number doesn’t exceed forty. Tonight he is playing hostess in a restaurant; when three people leave, he asks for a party of three to step forward and enter the room

Eventually it is my turn. I enter the room and spy cousins, aunts, uncles. Everyone is masked. A tv screen plays a montage of pictures of my cousin Kathy. Flowers line the back wall and I look for the spray we sent to make sure it looks nice. I wait in another line, one that snakes toward my cousin’s two children, who are cautiously greeting each new morning with a gloved grasp of hands or a fist bump, which seems weirdly out of place in a funeral home, but nothing really out of the ordinary for 2020. I whisper condolences when I get to the head of the line, kneel in front of the casket and say my goodbyes to Kathy.

I know what’s supposed to happen then. What usually happens. I’m supposed to mingle with all the friends and relatives gathered, and we’re supposed to talk about Kathy and laugh about Kathy and smile through tears as we tell stories about Kathy. We are supposed to catch up with…