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The old man dropped his cigarette butt into the ashtray after grinding the stub out. There was a pile of stubs already so this one addition hardly caused any notice. I watched his fingers shaking, yellowish, with dirt under his nails. His voice was gruff and hollow and he was telling me about the war, which war I wasn’t really sure, there had been so many. He crossed his legs slowly and raised his face to meet my gaze. His eyes were a watery blue and deep creases ran along his cheeks and forehead. He was an old man. He was my grandfather, although I had only just met him. It took my father dying to bring this side of the family together, and now we sat, in poorly cushioned chairs all in a line, waiting. The flowers were pungent and brilliant, the only color in the room. The air was silent for a moment with the coincidence of everyone’s mouths shutting, no more words to be spoken. I looked out the tall windows where there was only a small plate of clear glass surrounded by stained glass images from the Bible, images I did not recognize. My mother had not allowed us to go to church, and I had hardly been inside of a church until now, besides a few weddings long ago. It felt comfortable, as if a part of me had been kept from coming home. The alter was polished and gleaming in the late afternoon sun. the air was warm with so many people breathing quietly, waiting. An old man dies and all these people, many of whom do not know each other, come together as a group, all mourning in their black suits and ties. The old man who died was not even liked by most, including my grandfather who sat here next to me. I wondered whether he had ever liked his son or if from the very beginning he had known the man would do no good in the world. I was the outcome of one sweet moment, so I was told, a moment that was never to be repeated. Now, looking at his body, I see nothing but the skin and bones of a skeletal man, ridden by sickness, and left to die nearly alone. I almost felt sorry for him, not the man, but the body, a body so unloved and untouched. A body that had, until recently, bled and festered just like any other aging body, bones cracking and hair falling out. My grandfather shook his head slightly and looked down at his lap. I could hear his rasping breath. The body before us lying in the casket, the body next to me, only barely hanging on, my own body, also aging and wearing down, were all not so different. Could it really be just the minds, three separate minds that worked in such different ways, be the only divisions between us? Our blood was made off the same stuff, our flesh the same color. Even our eyes looked nearly the same. But the differences between us, so vast.