The first week is logistics. Somebody calls the funeral home. Somebody finds the folder with the will in it. Somebody decides whether the obituary says “peacefully” or says nothing at all. You’re all in the same house for the first time in years, sleeping in rooms you moved out of at eighteen, and the work gets divided the way it always got divided, which is to say it doesn’t get divided. Then the casseroles stop arriving. The out-of-town siblin…