She didn't call her mother back for hours. And in the end, she didn't have to.

He's gone.
I know.
Did Jo call you?
No. I just know.
Okay.
Okay.
I love you.
Okay.

She waited a day before driving home. Called work. Called her friends. Slept.

She drove through her tears. Not knowing what to expect. Her heart heavy at the thought of the hearts she'd want to hold.

Memories of events come to her in snatches.

Waking up that next morning to the sound of her mother's tears. A wail she'd never heard before. She just pulled the covers over her head and shut her eyes to the sound.

Walking into her grandparents' house. Barely able to keep it together. His blanket still on his chair. His hats still on the rack.

Sitting at the dining room table, listening to three old women talk about their father as if they were still girls. How grateful she felt for those moments. Too see them as daughters. Not as a mother. Not as aunts.

Watching her grandmother at the viewing as she sat with her sister-in-law. Both widows. But once two brides of two brothers. The history overwhelmed her. A life lived for decades beyond the scope of her
knowledge. Did they gather at church on Sundays and gossip about their men? Did they roll their eyes and say, They're just like their father! Did they commiserate over a meddling mother-in-law?

Standing with her cousin's young daughter, explaining the string of roses lining their PaPa's casket. White for the daughters, grand and great. Red for the sons, great and grand. Forty-six in all. Literally
surrounded by his legacy.

Running from the rain on the day of the funeral. A Thursday. She left her mother's umbrella on the pew. Even after she'd been reminded not to.

How perfect it seemed - the six of them shoulder to shoulder in the front row. How different they all were. How vast the difference in their lives. Farmers, fathers, business owners, professors.

But today just grandsons. Come to do their final duty.

Two of them spoke and Margie read her letter. How lucky they are, she thought. To be middle-aged and just now burying their grandfather.

The sun shone through the stain glass. A ray lighting upon the alter. She couldn't help but visualize her parents' wedding photos in her mind. The same church. Who sat in this pew and watched her young mother become her daddy's bride?

Who sat here and watched a father kiss his daughter away?

With his booming voice the vocalist sang out. The Old Rugged Cross. On a hill far away.

So, I'll cherish the old rugged cross.
Till my trophies at last I lay down;
I will cling to the old rugged cross,
And exchange it some day for a crown.

Then He'll call me some day to my home far away,
Where His glory forever I'll share.

And sweet Jesus, take care of Papa. Give him fields that stretch beyond the fingertips of his imagination.

When her cousins and G carried the casket away, how she could see Elijah in all of their faces. How he'd changed and shaped each of their lives in such different ways. Whether they were lessons learned
while bailing hay or crunching the numbers in a bankbook, his eyes had sparkled at them all.

She climbed into the car with her grandmother. The limo old and decrepit. Like the church. Like the town. Once shiny and looming large. Now just sad. Not even a little gleam to bear witness to its faded glory.

The short drive to the cemetery. The one she knew so well. Summers spend wading through the headstones. Trying to find the oldest one.

The pastor's words were few. She couldn't have bared many. She began to walk back to the car when she realized she'd need to walk with her grandmother.

She turned in time to see the old woman place shaky hands on the casket, bracing herself for a final kiss.

E.M.H. May 28, 1903 - February 20, 2000