Uncle Pat

The floors of the entranceway are marble.  It is overly ornate.  There are two pictures on the wall, with dates underneath them and arrows directing you to the right and to the left.  To left is some lady I don't know, but to the right is Uncle Pat.

The girls, Shelly and I walk into the large room.  There are couches and puffy chairs near the back, but most of the room is full of small wooden chairs, the kind with upholstered seats, facing the front.  There already enough people here, it is hard to make our way to the front.  One of his daughters, Kelly or Kerry escort us up, clearing the way.

I think to myself of this man, how a tribute would be so appropriate.  Many times at a funeral, everything is kept formal.  Nothing would dare be added to the casket.  Not here, that wouldn't have been his style.  I could see a liquor bottle, like one of the little ones he collected, or a Sparty, or a deck of cards.  Before we make it halfway through the room, I can tell I'm not alone with these thoughts.  The casket is draped in a Michigan State flag, in the casket, behind him is a little bottle and plastic hand holding some cards.  These are for us, not for him.

He doesn't look like himself.  He lost so much weight in his illness and his chin line is different.  It makes me want to believe it is not him, but I know it is.  Well, it is his body, but he is not there any more.  He lives on but not in the illness ravaged flesh and bones here before me, surrounded by things reminding me who this was.

First, he lives hearts and minds of his friends and family.  The ones who will keep telling the story of how fourteen kids, from various families waited for him to disembark a plane, while they waited with letters in hand, which spelled out, "Welcome Home Dad!". They will tell how the variety of hair and skin tones had other passengers just waiting to see who this man was.  They will tell of how they convinced this man, who did not like scary movies, to see Omen by telling him it was a musical.  They will continue to meet at the farm and play euchre in the tournament he started.  They will celebrate the traditions he was such a part of and eat at the Ruth dinner.  They will continue to say in never rains and there are no tears, at the farm.

Second, I believe he lives on in eternity.  This means while there will be moments of tears and loss, they are for us, here.  It is just for a little while, then we'll finish our race.  I can see him now, wondering around the farm grounds of heaven asking, with a wink, if we bought our park passes.