an ornamental hermit.

My siblings unanimously elected me as the offspring in charge. The responsibility of responding to the letters of condolence fell to me. There were thirty-seven of them in total.
—
I put the letters in a shoebox and carried them to my study in the basement. I opened them and laid them out on my desk, one on top of the other. I read each letter attentively. Their blandness, emptiness, and uniformity surprised me. I realized that I had absolutely nothing to say in response. Apart from “Thank you for your kind words, blah, blah…” nothing came to mind. I reached behind me and picked a book from the shelf. It was Charles Jackson’s The Lost Weekend. I loaded a sheet into my typewriter, checked whose condolence letter was on top of the pile, and began to write: “Dear Aunt Bocker, …” Then I opened the book to a random page and shamelessly copied the first three sentences from the top of the page. I finished the note with “Your words mean so much…” and signed it. I did the same with all the letters.
—
Some relatives later called and asked me if I was okay. Some wrote to tell me they could see how hard my loss had been. One distant aunt wired me money. Enough to get my car radio fixed. Apparently, most of them cared.