The People We Bury

Perhaps you have seen someone who is dead, someone who lies contained and peaceful and is there for the viewing. And perhaps you have been in a place, say a small hospital room, where you have watched somebody die. Not seen them being simply dead, but watching for 12 or so hours as morphine dosed high enough to remedy nearly anything drips over the course of a night and into early morning, long enough for the heart and lungs to finally surrender.  I have seen only a few dead people, and, until very recently, had not actually been in that room when someone went from dying to dead, someone I have known for a very long time. And now, yet another person in my family could be dead before tomorrow or before autumn. As his daughter says, "It's up to him now."
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Somewhere in this blog I wrote about Jeff, I think, a childhood friend who died several years ago. We were, in fact, great friends, though he was much more prone to trouble than I was as a boy, something he never grew out of. He was shot at least once that I know of, and he spent time in many jails. He was a good person, I think, and I've always thought that if I hadn't moved to California when I was in eighth grade, I could have kept Jeff on a more straight and forward path. I often think of him, and I miss him.

A couple of weeks ago I read that Jeff's father, Maury, had died at the age of 92. Not a bad age. I hadn't not seen Maury in many years, not since one or another visit to my small hometown in Illinois, a place I often return to in one way or another. I once dragged my wife and sons to see him during a family vacation, and he was a wonderful host and seemed quite pleased to see us. Maury and my father worked together for many years until my father was transferred to California, which is how I ended up here. I remember things about Maury: that he had been a pilot in WW2, that he made wine in the basement, that he was a Catholic. I also remember a Little League game in which, at 8 years old, I was playing shortstop. The batter hit a nice ground ball to me, and stood right where I was and  watched it roll by me. I did not move. Moments later my coaches yelled and hollered, and they pulled me from the game. Sitting alone on the bench, I cried. And I'm not sure of why, buy Maury was soon sitting next to me, his arm on my shoulder as he tried to cheer me up. To this day I do not remember why he was there, why my parents were not. Perhaps Jeff and I were playing at the same time on different teams, and Maury was watching over us that night. Then again, it's quite possible that the memory is incorrect as memories often are.

The person I recently watch die was buried just a few days ago, and the small ceremony was quite nice. Maury was buried in a cemetery in my home town; I do not know where Jeff is buried. Maury's obituary mentioned those family member who had preceded him into wherever they went: a couple of brothers, a sister, a wife. Oddly, though, it did not mention Jeff, and I do not know if the omission was his intent or his daughter's, who I can only suppose wrote the thing. I hope that Jeff was not simply forgotten or brushed away.