Robyn in Mourning

My younger sibling Seth stands up to say a few words at our father’s shiva. They’re still wearing the black dress and tights from the funeral, even though Mom and I dumped our dresses and pantyhose, changing into pants as soon as we got back. I’d suggested Seth do the same.

“I’m comfortable this way,” Seth had said.

Under the dress, Seth wears the padded sports bra they showed me this afternoon, when I’d questioned the look of their chest, wondered whether they’d been taking hormones. I can’t imagine what Mom thought when she saw that. Seth’s hair is long and straight, parted in the middle, hanging past their shoulders. Longer, now, than mine. They’re wearing makeup: black eyeliner and a light brown shadow, deep red lips with a matte finish. Muted for the occasion, I assume.

“Good evening,” Seth says, smoothing their dress. “Thanks for being here to honor my dad. You all know me as Seth, Jason and Abby’s second child, but recently I’ve been trying out the name Sesu, an anglicized version of the name Seth in Japanese.”

And here we go, I think. Always about Seth. Sesu. Whatever.

I’m still calling Seth Seth, despite the recent experiment with Sesu. I’ve been trying to remember the new name, but it’s hard. I mean, they’ve been Seth for over twenty years, Sesu only for the last few weeks.

And I’ve had a few other things on my mind, Seth. Like Dad dying. Like helping Mom with these arrangements. Like making sure you booked a flight from Japan that got you home...