Funerals generally have nothing whatsoever to do with the dead. They’re all about the living: the selfish, worthless, annoying living.
I am happy to say that I had more fun at this funeral than any other I’ve been to. Naturally the shindig was about those of us left behind but I could feel that the entire affair was a celebration of my grandfather’s life. Maybe it’s because he suffered so terribly for so long. For whatever reason, tears were few and, at least in my case, any urge to weep wasn’t because of my loss or because of pity for my mother, aunts and uncles but because I was so happy Grandpop was well-remembered and went so calmly and that everyone bore up so well.
In my family we never do anything easy. Dying’s no different. But for a man who had been paralyzed for most of my life and entirely bedridden for the past several years he slipped away about as gently as one could have wished.
If you knew my grandfather you’d know why I had this thought after the viewing: Grandpop was travelling the great highway to the sky and Saint Peter was standing atop a shining cloud yelling down, “Yo, Ed! Take your time. You got two god-damned seconds!”
Man, heaven’s going to be a good time.