I look at the little card in the envelope, the folded, neatly clipped obituary and will myself to remember. There was no note other than the lightly scrawled, "Requesting the honor of your presence." which appears to be signed by your wife.
As much as I should be asking myself, "Who are you?" when looking at the black and white print of your face, I find my thoughts stunted.
"The honor of your presence."
Who am I?
Who am I to merit such an invitation? To be present, to bear witness to your family's grief? I would be lying to say I remember, with any great clarity, the events that lead to this moment. I know what I do. And for the life of me, I can't imagine it meriting anything.
In fact as I look down at the slip that is now crumpled under fingers fidgeting with stress, I find that I scarcely remember you. And I cannot help but feel that I failed you a second time.