We buried my brother in law today. Yesterday's wake was well-attended. Even Al's biggest nemesis, Impy, who lived directly across the street and loved to break balls, showed up. There was a lot of reminiscing and laughter, as well as tears. Between the afternoon and evening sessions, I picked up Al's oldest grandchild, Tanina, her husband Simone, and little Lorenzo, four. The flight from Milan was delayed an hour, and traffic was so bad that there was no choice but to take them directly to the funeral hall. It is Simone's first trip to America. He works in the food industry and seems like a real pleasant guy. I have to really concentrate to understand him, as my Italian has gotten so bad. I confess that I often fake it. I'm happy to report, though, that he's not a Socialist, unlike most of his fellow citizens.
Al's nephew Anthony, an Army doctor and church deacon, presided over the ceremonies at the wake and the grave site, and assisted at the mass at St. Mary's. We are very proud of him. He is a veteran of Desert Storm, having spent time in Kuwait attending to the wounded. His high blood pressure kept him from being deployed to Iraq. Al was also a veteran. A three-man color guard was assigned to the burial. Many tears were shed as taps was played by one of the fine young men. My sister broke down at that point. I choked up, eyes glazing. It is amazing how even the passing of the elderly wrenches such emotion from family. I shudder to think what the death of the young must do. As the other two members of the color guard meticulously folded the flag and presented it to my sister, I noted tears on the face of my 15-year-old great nephew, Al's grandchild. His sister Danielle, 13, delivered the eulogy at the mass. Al would have been proud of her, although her emotions caused her to forget a lot of what she wanted to say. Ronnie, who is over six-feet tall, has taken up the guitar, following in the footsteps of his dad, a superlative banjo player.
After the burial, it was off to the old house for the post ritual feast. The food was excellent, catered by a place on Avenue X that handled the funeral of a family friend, Herbert. My sister has seen the passing of several friends the past few years. I think it prepared her to cope with her husband's death. Two years ago, when she contracted pneumonia and was constantly coughing up a storm, I was sure Al would outlive her. She has made a remarkable recovery.
Yuri and Lorenzo, who sports blue-framed, Elton John-like eyeglasses, wore me out with their demands to be hoisted and held upside down. Fortunately, Ronnie and two of his teenage cousins, both high school football players, were there to relieve me. Many pictures were shot. There were a lot of those new-fangled phones on display. Frank, married to Cristina, Al's sister, did not attend the party. The emotion got to that exemplary man who brought five children into the world and raised them to be model citizens. My mom described him as a pinello, a paragon, as I understand it. Anthony, his son, once quipped that, like Hyman Roth of The Godfather Part II, his father complained he was dying of the same heart attack for 20 years. I was afraid we might lose him today. Fortunately we did not.
And we move on, as Al would want.
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