We went to Rock Hill for Papa’s sister’s funeral this afternoon, the “we” being E and I. L was sick; Papa was too weak; and K had to stay back to keep an eye on everyone. It’s been a tough eighteen months for Papa: two sisters and his wife passed, and the final heartbreak was his decision not to go today.

As E and I entered the funeral home, I reminded him of our plan: “Remember, no hugs or handshakes. We don’t want to take anything back to Papa.” Was this coronavirus-related? Not so much, but still — with an incubation period of several symptom-free days, it is best to extend precautions a bit further than one naturally would.

After the graveside service, my cousin D said he was going to head over to grandma’s and grandpa’s grave.

“We’ll tag along,” I suggested. The last time the Girl had a tournament in Rock Hill, I’d spent a good bit of time wandering through that cemetery, which was across the street from the sports venue, looking for this grave.

And this one, just beside it.

The uncle for whom I was named whom I never met.

“He was a lot of fun,” my cousin D, nearly twenty years my senior, shared. “Larry would always make you laugh, always make you feel better.”