I was 13 years old. As one of the pallbearers, I stood at the end of the line, watching the casket sliding from the hearse. Suddenly, I felt weak. Grief rushed through me in a way I hadn’t known before. I turned away, just at the time when I should have been reaching up. My uncle turned and screamed something nasty at me. What exactly, I don’t remember. Only that “do your job” was tagged to the end of it. I didn’t forgive him for years for that, even though it was mostly a reaction out of fear that the casket would fall.