Part One - Part Two - Part Three
The Funeral (4 of 4)
12.6.5
"I just want to go play poker so I can forget about all of this for a little while," my grandfather pleaded.
My father had stopped taking him to the track in recent years. He loved to play poker there, but as he had grown older he had lost the mental sharpness required for such a game. On the rare occasions that he did get to play, my father would set a limit of one tray of chips. Usually, he'd lose it all.
I listened as the two of them argued. Because of my grandfather's tendency to lose his money, my dad didn't want him playing poker today. He didn't want him to end up disappointed.
I eventually jumped in to take my grandfather's side. I understood my dad's point of view, but as far as I was concerned, anyone who had just buried their wife was allowed to do whatever they wanted to do.
In a way, I was feeling much closer to my grandfather than I ever had. Throughout my life, most of our conversations had been comprised of strictly small talk. He would ask what was going on in my life, and I would ask how he was doing. The usual. Over the past few days, however, our discussions had been different. The subject matter had changed, and he had looked me in the eyes in a way I had never before experienced. There was an understanding between us that hadn't been there before. We spoke, not like a boy and his grandpa, but like men.
This morning when we had laid my grandmother to rest, he even asked me to sit next to him.
In a way, I was honored.
Eventually, I convinced my father to grant him his wish. We got in the car, and headed down to the track.
My grandfather found the poker tables, and took a seat at an empty table. We stayed with him until they had enough players to begin, and then we went downstairs to bet on the dogs.
I suppose that there is some kind of strategy involved in dog racing. For me, though, it all came down to which one was the cutest. I would sit at the viewing window as they showed the dogs off. Which ever one appeared to be having the most fun was generally the one I bet on.
Unfortunately, it turns out that cute dogs aren't necessarily the fastest runners. I only won once.
Every now and then I would go upstairs to check on my grandfather. Each time I did, he seemed to be telling a different person about his beautiful wife, the late Marion Cutaia. Each one of them offered their most sincere condolences.
I was also able to witness firsthand, exactly what my father was talking about. Several times, I watched as my grandfather accidentally exposed his hand to the other players. Still...it had been over an hour, and he had only lost a small amount.
We were getting close to my flight time, however, so I gave him notice that we'd be leaving in fifteen minutes (This was despite my father's warnings that doing so would lead him to up his bets considerably).
After one last race, we headed back upstairs to collect my grandfather. In those fifteen minutes, he had found a way to lose almost all of his remaining chips. My father had been right. I didn't care, though. My grandfather remained in good spirits, so I still felt that the outing had been a success.
I now sit 37,000 feet above the ground in a plane headed for Aurora, CO. Tomorrow I will return to work, and things will go back to normal. The other night, the family made a pact of sorts: The funeral was for crying. The days that followed would be for celebrating the good times.
I'm sure there will be times when this becomes difficult to impossible. Even as I write this, I can feel the tears welling up in my eyes. It will always sadden me to remember the point during the burial when my grandfather turned to me with tears in his eyes and said, "Your grandmother is in there."
I hope she's not, though. Like my grandfather, I can't say I'm entirely sure about the afterlife, but I do hope she's in a better place now.
That sure would be nice.
Rest in peace, Grandma. Until we meet again...
