done and meant to so many, most of all her sons and husband.

 

Puller glanced around the church where he had attended Mass as a young boy.

 

He looked over at one elderly lady who was clutching her rosary.

 

And then it struck him.

 

Sunday best.

 

He said in a low voice, “Sunday best.” His brother, obviously hearing this,

turned to him and said, “What?” “Mom was coming here that night. She was coming

to pray over things before visiting Bristow after he called her. She was coming

to seek God’s help on what to do.” He added in a hollow tone, “And maybe not

just about with Bristow. But with Dad too.” After finishing the service, Rooney

slowly made his way down to the three men and gave them each his personal

condolences.

 

Puller Sr. clung to the priest’s hand so tightly that Puller thought he saw

Rooney wince in pain, but the old priest gamely hung in there until the old

soldier relinquished his grip.

 

The Puller brothers were pallbearers, easily hoisting the coffin with their

mother’s remains. Tears streamed down their faces as they performed this task,

both at the church and at the gravesite.