Snippet 3

At seventeen I got my driver’s license and jumped at the chance to take Grandma for her Christmas visit to my grandfather’s grave. My older brother was more than willing to give up the drive, and I should have suspected why, but I didn’t.

Grandma weighed more than three hundred pounds so that getting in and out of the car was a chore for her. She came equipped with twine and a scissor. Our first stop was one of the many lots that pop up during the holidays to sell Christmas trees. They also sold “blankets” for the grave. These bough-designed decorations stood alongside wreaths, all with pine cones and red bows. We stopped at Grandma’s favorite spot. She got out of the car with great effort, looked at all the pieces that lined the fence, and deliberated for nearly 20 minutes until she found the exact one she wanted. The December cold didn’t faze her. Fortunately, for me, the kind man lifted the piece and placed it in my trunk.

We drove several more miles to the cemetery, one of the county’s largest, entered the gate and drove for another twenty minutes until she could recall where he was buried. “It’s in this section here,” she said, but the section was nearly an acre in size. I parked the car to the side of the lane and from there we trekked among the graves for another twenty minutes, except I was carrying the piece and following her footsteps. Even with gloves my hands were cold. In this open space there were no trees to cut the wind that penetrated my jacket.

Alas, she found the grave. I dropped the blanket, rubbing my hands and blowing into them before tucking them in my pocket. She on the other hand removed her gloves, placed them in her pocket, and got to work. She weaved the twine through the piece and wrapped it around the head stone to secure it in place. She huffed and puffed, bended and lifted, pushed up her glasses and blew her nose. She had the task under control without much help from me. When Grandma was certain that the piece was secure, she removed her gloves from her pocket and put them on. Another annual visit was made.

Under the grey cold sky she stood at the foot of the grave somberly. Then she said. “You bastard. If I was in that grave you wouldn’t do this for me.”

This was the ritual my brother so easily passed on to me.