It suddenly occurs to everyone that you've read, the ones that live inside your skull, that you are not approaching this scenario in a condonable fashion. You've avoided the pranks and the high velocity quirks of small town living, only to see that it arrives at the front desk waiting for some sign that you're going to return to the root of it all, the source, the scene of the crime or that period of time where you just couldn't really hack it as a son or a father or a husband or a saint. 

And even though, you take care not to offend, you feel obligated to claim rite as the pater familias. You can't ignore the encroaching grey skin of the patriarchal shift. You can't wait to step foot at the funeral with a sharp blade  and even sharper inclination in your pocket. 

Everyone's going to see the false impression coming. They're going to whisper and squint when you make that long trek. And the doors of their homes will be forever closed. And the grave markers of adopted feasibility will read like something in  foreign, dead tongues. You won't know what to make of the proceedings. But it'll be easily deciphered, by those you've read, and those that read you. 

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