As I drive down the main street of my home town in Connecticut – the sidewalks still wet from a recent thunderstorm – I notice the flag in front of the firehouse is at half mast in honour of my father, who had been, at 102, the volunteer fire company’s oldest member. The other thing I notice is that the church – the one where we had been planning to hold my father’s memorial service – is being re-roofed. “Yeah, it’s closed,” my brother says shortly after I arrive from the airport. “So we can’t do it there?” I say. “They have their regular services in the park,” he says. “So we could do that, but if the weather’s bad there’s nowhere to go.” The next morning my brother and I drive to his office, one of a collection of under-populated light industrial units housed in what was once a large engineering concern. I sit at a spare desk pretending to write my eulogy, while my brother emails people about venues. “The Moose Room is available at 5pm on Monday,” he says. The Moose Room is a community space sharing a courtyard with the local library, so-called because of the large stuffed moose head hanging above its fireplace. “Is that the earliest we can get in there?” I say. “They have mahjong until 3,” he says. Another complication: when my mother died in 1998 we purchased, at short notice, a double cemetery plot with a single headstone, leaving space for my dad’s name. But my father has already been cremated. The cemetery allows urns to be interred on top of coffins, potentially leaving us in possession of an entire extra plot. “I feel we already voted to put him on top of her grave,” my sister texts, referring to an earlier conversation. “Can we confirm this?” It is also felt that Monday is too soon for the burial, since it turns out my father is, as an army veteran, entitled to certain military honours, which take time to organise. My sisters, who are dealing with funeral home paperwork, would prefer Tuesday. “The Moose Room does not have Tuesday availability,” my brother texts. Dad swam at this beach every day in summer for decades and never missed high tide After a dozen more texts are exchanged, a decision is reached: Moose Room on Monday, right after mahjong, followed by burial on Tuesday morning, with soldiers. “Now that we have a date,” my sister-in-law texts, “do you want me to reach out to the caterer that Joan Caviola used for her dad?” That afternoon I call my wife to put her in the picture. “Do you remember right after we got married,” I say, “and my mother made us have that party when we came back here for Christmas?” “Vaguely,” she says. “Well, that was the Moose Room.” “So are you sad?” she says. “Are you sitting in the house staring at the four walls?” “I’m at the beach, actually,” I say. “Oh,” she says. “I’m sad, but it’s high tide,” I say. My father swam at this beach every day in summer for decades. He was an hour late for his own 95th birthday party because he didn’t want to miss high tide. He, above all people, would understand. When I get off the phone I see that my sister-in-law – two deck chairs over – is talking to Joan Caviola, a local dog-walker of legendary directness, about her recommended caterer. My sister-in-law introduces us. “Yeah hi,” says Joan. “Anyway, did you do any dessert?” “I didn’t,” says my sister-in-law. “Exactly,” says Joan. “It’s not a goddamn birthday party.” “And we can still change our minds,” my sister-in-law says. “Hey!” says Joan, turning to me. “How long you lived in England?” “About 30 years,” I say. “You fuckin’ sound like it!” A final complication: my sister has located an old wooden box containing religious accessories my father’s father once used to perform the last rites in the absence of a Catholic priest. She thinks the box will be a good repository for my father’s ashes. “Maybe,” I say. “But it is too nice to bury,” I say. “Do you want it?” she says. “To be honest, I’m a little creeped out by it,” I say. “I mean, we’d take the stuff out first,” she says. “In which case, it’s just a box, right?” I say. “A box with a cross on it.” “Yeah,” she says. “Do the ashes fit in it,” I say, “without us having to do any, um, redistributing?” My sister takes the square tin of ashes off the shelf and demonstrates that it fits in on its side. “So what do you think?” she says. “I don’t even know why I’m pretending to have an opinion,” I say, looking at my phone, where I see that it’s still only Friday.