Resting my head

It's strange how the mind works. I was at a baptism today for my youngest cousin's (David) twin babies, and toward the end of linner, I was engaged in a conversation with my uncle. I've never been particularly close with Irving--my mother's sister's husband--but when we do see one another, we are cordial, and he genuinely seems interested in my life.

As we were talking, my mind went to the day my grandfather was buried. I was seven when he died--the same age Frederic was when my father died. Even though I was able to attend the funeral, I wasn't allowed to see my grandfather in the open casket. They wanted me to remember him alive. They didn't want my last memory to be of him eternally sleeping. While I didn't get to see him, I seem to have a vision in my mind's eye of what he possibly looked like. I assume it's because I heard all of the adults talking about how "they" put a smile on his face; how he looked so peaceful. David was even younger than I was, so he was told that our grandfather went on a long vacation. I've never asked him if he remembers this or not.

After they buried my grandfather, I sat in the black stretch limo next to Irving. Everyone was so quiet and sad, including me. I rested my head on Irving's chest, and he put his arm around me to comfort me. It was a tender gesture, and quite possibly the closest moment I've had with him all of my life.

I thought about this today during our conversation, and considered sharing the memory with him. But the moment passed as someone else took our attention away from each other.

The moment passed, but the memory remains 32 years later.