So, I’m sitting on a small settee in the hallway of the funeral home when this kid, no older than ten, sits down beside me. He has black hair and his dark eyes are wide and sincere.
“How did you know Lena?” the kid asks, as natural as you please.
I look at him like he’s from another planet – well, I think all kids are from another planet, but whatever one this kid is from I’d actually like to visit.
“She was my grandmother,” I tell him and he nods his head, contemplating my reply. I ask him how he knew her, very curious about his answer.
“I knew her my whole life,” he says straightening up, obviously very proud. “She gave me this metal truck that I can put coins in and she also used to give me candy.”
Yep. That’s my grandma, I thought.
The kid, who I later learn is named Tony, continues speaking. “I’m so glad that people aren’t crying and sad and are instead laughing and telling happy stories about her.”
“I am, too,” I tell him.
And now, I am very glad that this will always be my memory of my grandmother’s funeral.