CONWAY

The perspective of my Grandmother’s funeral from a Grandson she hadn’t met.

The day that you died, I held my niece’s hand.
She held my finger back.
I found out holding hands was one of your favorite things to do.
I surely wasn’t around enough to hold your hands all that much. Mainly because I feared in more recent years of you unable to grasp the change in my voice, the change in my face. Oh, but what I would give to hold your ancient hands at this moment if your body allowed me to.

At your funeral, you were disintegrated into ashes encased in a granite box surrounded by flowers just like you had wanted and I watched all the children from three generations bring them to you. I cried my eyes out at the thought of holding your hands just once more. I let the tears run down my face when the tiny hands placed the yellow flowers in the vase.

I remember the excitement I felt waiting in line as a child to eat the body of Christ. I felt that feeling return as I watched the children rush in line, eagerly, respectfully, and honorably hold out their hands to father. I observed them wonder what the off white circles were that they embraced in their palms as they returned to their seats.
I turned around in my pew and gazed down the row of pew’s at everyone that you touched, of everyone that Loved you. They were so beautiful, they were so old, so young, and they smiled back.

We left mass and drove towards your grave. Sister couldn’t stop talking about the traffic that followed the elephant in the room, the granite box, dear you. We backed the whole town up at every red light and we didn’t stop for anyone that wasn’t here for you.
When we arrived at your grave, I found Grandfather for the first time. I watched the server carry your urn on his chest like he was juggling a pile of heavy, meaningless, college books. I wanted so deeply to say, “Please, let me hold her.” but I didn’t. Instead, I watched a yellow rose drop from his hands onto the grass and I went to it. I picked one pedal off for memories and the rest intact for your grave. I stood behind your husband’s grave and watched everyone lay a flower around your urn and on the florets went stacking and stacking and stacking. Oh Grandma, how many people that Loved you. I wondered who some of these beings were, how they knew you, and how they had met you for the very first time.

The service was over rather quickly, so quickly I locked eyes with the gravedigger as everyone walked away. He was the color of dirt in skin, in shirt. He held a shovel in his hands and he stared back at me, hesitating to move once I found him amongst the trees. It was beautifully haunting. I clutched your great-granddaughter and explained to her who he was. He kept looking back occasionally at us, questioning his movements. I wondered why we weren’t shoveling the dirt. His job is to dig holes but today he is burying my Grandmother. I slipped into the car and watched him through the backseat window, lower the granite urn that entombed what was once your body into the ground. What a sacred duty. I imagined rubbing the dirt in between the cracks of my fingers and sprinkling the earth on you, around you. I watched my cousins, aunts, uncles, sisters, brother, Father, and Mother fill your grave in honor of 92 years on earth to return back to it.