A year ago today I was in Puerto Rico with my infant son and husband. My grandfather had passed a few days earlier. I’ve dreamed about the details of my own funeral for years. In a crazy sort of cosmic way I found it fitting that so many of the things I want, things I dream of, were actually party of my grandfathers burial. As we drove from one town to the next, under a canopy of swaying trees, I felt an enormity of mixed emotions including sorrow and gratitude. We rode in silence. I remember my son peering out the window looking peaceful in his blue and green John-John outfit. And then in those final moments of my grandfathers’ procession I felt our deep connection solidified.
How deeply I miss him. I loved him more then I ever expressed. I regret that. I regret that he never met my son. Though I think they have a lot in common, I can already see it. I don’t always realize it but every day I see my grandfather. I see him on my way out the door as my eyes scan my wedding photo of him and me. I see him in the Indian bobble head I took from his home. And I see him daily in my son. The traits and characteristics are right there in front of me. Those two are so alike.
Shortly after this photo was taken we found ourselves surrounded by family and friends at the beach. Most everyone was drinking $1 beer. We gorged on food and being Puerto Rican there was also a lot of dancing (and laughter). And when it was too hot to dance anymore we made our way to a local resort for gambling. No one won big that night but boy did we laugh our asses off. Everything we did was something my grandfather would have done had it been anyone else’s funeral.