In the center of the room

Uncle Collin didn't look her in the eye. “Agnes Mary,” he said in a stale monotone, “a blue dress? What is it the neighbors will be saying?”

She squirmed just as she’d done when she’d done something wrong at school.

One by one, they lined up for the coffin. It took an eternity - her aunts, her uncles, her cousins. They all prayed by Granny’s coffin, made signs of the cross, then kissed her. Patrick, Mama, and Uncle Collin stood last in line. When they reached the front, Norman came into the room with the baby and retreated to the back by Granny's piano. Her piano now, Agnes thought.

The tears finally burst forth. She sobbed into Norman’s shoulder and the baby began to wail. All eyes turned to them. No children were ever allowed at an Irish wake. Patrick clutched Mama’s arm and said, “Is this the child?”.

They walked over to Mama, next to Granny’s coffin. “Mama,” she wailed, “this is our daughter. We named her Grace Victoria.”

“A beautiful creature, just like your father. Let me hold her. Collin, look at this child. May I?” she asked Norman, without looking at him.

He handed Grace over to Mama and she rocked the baby in her arms. Norman stepped backward and stood by the window.

“Agnes,” Uncle Collin directed. “Take care of this at once.”

“Norman, it’s bad luck to stand between the coffin and an open window. You’d better come back from there.”