Excused From The Table
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VVgixOjGhVU&feature=youtu.be
The table was set for ten.
Standard fare for Holidays with my family: turkey, ham. Broccoli with Cheez Whiz, because I once said I liked that, so it became present at each gathering. Sunbeam Bread's yeast rolls, drizzled with liquid Parkay and baked in one of the two stainless steel ovens mounted in the wall.
There were other things, of course. But these were omnipresent at Easter, Mother's Day, the Birthday, Thanksgiving, and Christmas.
The Birthday was a double celebration for me and my Great Grandmother. Hers was one day ahead of mine, so we gathered yearly for us both.
No one else garnered such an honor.
Uncle D passed, but I was too removed, too young, too preoccupied to pay much attention. His was my first ever funeral.
The things I miss most about him, those odd things I associate with his memory, are his cats and his tricycle. He had an adult-sized trike, complete with basket and bell. Riding it around his neighborhood was such fun, such joy.
He had white cats, and I used to chase them through the pet doors. He used to laugh at that; his laughter, I can remember. His leathery tanned skin, his white hair that matched those cats, those stand out in my memory.
The table was set for nine.
She was the first to go who truly meant something for me. She, of the Banks of That River. She, of infinite kindness and endless games of Monopoly and Sorry and Go Fish. She, of recipes cooked to order and teaching me to read. She, of whom I know so little but for whom I care so much. I wish I'd known her better, but through it all I think the greatest tragedy was that my mother was only 30 when she lost hers.
I was ten.
My grandmother was a schoolteacher, and the line for her visitation stretched around the building, beyond capacity for the funeral home.
Former students waited hours to pay respects.
She taught sixth grade, and these people heard. They came.
I never cried at her funeral, but I've cried since. Every time I immortalize her on these pages, my head aches and the light prisms.
The last gift she gave me was less than two weeks before she died. Wrapped in newspaper, (I didn't mind) I discovered a gift that no one understands why I've kept all these years. To them, it is merely a toy jet. Just a silly thing for a grown man to keep. It takes up an awful lot of space. But within me, so does she.
The table was set for eight.
He died when I was at work. It was unexpected, but not particularly sad. I still wept, for he was a strong influence on me and in my life.
My grandfather was not a kind man, but he was always good to me, until he wasn't. At the end of his life, he turned away from his immediate family in favor of the family he left behind when Eisenhower ran the country. I stood against him when he railed against my mother, my father, us. I ended our relationship when he ended his respect for my family; he chose the bottle. He chose the past.
Years passed before we again spoke.
He was my mentor and my friend, and I missed him the whole time he lived right next door.
The table was set for seven.
The Matriarch languished, her mind remaining razor sharp while her body crumbled around her. My Great-Grandmother was a survivor, having nearly sent one daughter to war and having sent another to the grave. The Great Depression, the Great War, and a single Great Grandson.
She had a scar on her right forearm. As she aged, the skin beneath that scar became almost translucent; I could see the bone beneath, and the purple of veins crossing over it.
I never got more than, "I cut it when I was younger," from her.
I wish I'd gotten to hear the story of that scar, I wish she'd opened up to me about the truth of it.
I wish I'd heard more of her stories, so that they could be retold here or somewhere like here.
Her passing was an end of an era.
The table wasn't set as often, and when it was, it was set for six.
My dad died shortly before I attended a police academy he helped found. My name brought looks of recognition and words of consolation, but the truth is, I hadn't spoken to him in years.
When he left my mother, I was left with a house to run.
When she left the house for a new country and a new start, I was left alone.
The table was set for five.
My Great-Aunt and Great-Uncle died within weeks of one another. His was a large affair, practically a State service.
My Great-Aunt wasn't at the funeral, because she was in the hospital. It was in one of her lucid moments that she realized he'd died, and days later, she followed him.
Her funeral was much smaller. No governors, no senators, no mayors came to pay their respects, which was fine. She had friends, people who truly knew her, and she had us. Her family.
My mother's sister died at forty. She was somewhat estranged, she was a bit removed from us, but I still feel for my mother. There used to be love there, once, and those are the memories my mother holds.
The table is now set for two.