This past Thursday my husband and I drove to Tucson, Arizona to attend my grandfather's funeral. When I was a little girl, my family and I made this journey at least once a year during the Christmas holidays. My father cracked sunflower seeds while he drove and burst out in song to a mixed tape of Frank Sinatra and Louis Prima. My sisters and I listened to our walkmans and took as many naps as humanly possible. The road was an endless stretch of desert with scattered cacti that my father would name given that he grew up in the desert.
The next morning my family and I got ready and wore a dress I have worn to three funerals. Sadly, I call it my funeral dress. What I remember most about that day was watching my five year old nephew David attend his second funeral in the past seven months and trying to see things from his perspective. He seemed proud to be dressed so nicely in his suit and have his hair combed perfectly. I noticed that he was particularly interested in catching the fallen flower petals from the boutonnieres of each of my grandfather's seven children. In his hand he clutched red rose petals torn to shreds from so much human contact and was eager to catch the three peach-colored rose petals fallen on the aisle. There was a large photo of my grandfather smiling behind his black signature moustache and David asked his father, "Papa, where is Grandpa?" In my head I responded, "he died and they burned his body. His ashes are sitting in that little container underneath a tablecloth. That's all that's left of him."
After the service we went to the cemetery where the Honor Guard unfolded and folded a flag with precision while my nephew found little treasures he gave to his mother. He handed her a red plastic heart and a fallen silk flower from someone else's arrangement. She said, "thank you mijo," while he smiled at her proudly as someone pretended to play taps on the bugle.
Later that night we went to my aunt and uncle's house and re-watched a video of my grandfather over the years that ended with a karaoke clip of him singing "My Way" by Frank Sinatra. It was as though he came to life for an instant, his face hidden in the shadows. He had a scotch in hand as he sang, "And now the end is near, and so I face the final curtain. I've lived a life that's full. I traveled each and every highway and more, much more than this, I did it my way." As he sang, "regrets I've had a few, but then again, too few to mention," I thought about my disappointment that he and my grandmother didn't attend my high school graduation, hoping that was one of his regrets, that he was somehow apologizing after all these years. I'm sure that everyone had their own interpretation of what he meant by those words.
Hours later my cousin Clayton sets up the karaoke machine and we sang "Chicago" and "New York, New York" by Frank Sinatra. Then the familiar tune begins of "My Way" and we sang out loud, all of us, changing the words from "I did it my way," to "he did it his way." Tears swelled in my eyes and a giant knot formed in my throat as we said goodbye to him.
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