T(r)oy's Marbles
sixth grade--the funeral parlor
X. The Funeral Parlor
I had never been in one before. It smelled sort of funny and I had to be quiet. Grandpa lay in an open coffin.
But was that really Grandpa?
His hands weren’t greasy, he didn’t have on his soiled Skelly overalls; he wasn’t clutching a wrench in one hand and “Bopping” me on the head with the other hand (coiled into a large loose fist).
I knew then that I would miss his deep voice; I would miss standing outside with him in the white of winter to watch him smoke a cigarette while he wore nothing more than a thin t-shirt.
Now he was wearing a suit and his fingernails were clean. (And here I thought we were “paying our respects”! Yeah, right: he deserved to be buried in used black oil extracted from Ford motor engines, instead. That would have suited him better, believe me.)
journal | Comments (0) | March 25, 2005