It was a cold morning, which is not uncommon in St. Louis, even in the summer. Maybe it was due to the rain, but that cleared away soon, so I don’t know. I was wearing what she would have wanted to me wear. It was a Friday and it was my grandmother’s wake.
She was my mom’s mom – a giver and the matriarch of four children, 12 grandchildren and 30 foster children, wife to my grandfather for 54 years. She lived in the same house and belonged to the same parish for nearly all her life. She had a lot of people at the wake.
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The day was long but went well, all things considered. There was, though, one moment where emotions flooded. I was grabbing an old record out of my grandpa’s car when I looked over and saw the empty passenger seat. They were the type of couple that shared every ride together; from dentist to soccer game, they were together. That night, for the first time in 50 years, he’d drive home alone.
Blah. That was tough for me. So I stood outside an extra minute to collect myself. Alone. Looking down. Standing next to the quite road. No sounds of people talking or sharing or crying. Just silence. That was tough.
