It was a holy moment. I felt like an intruder, yet, at the same time I felt incredibly blessed to be a witness. It's an odd thing as a son to watch your father say goodbye to his father. Dad asked me to go to the funeral home with him to handle some last minute details before the "visitation". We walked in and saw the body in the casket. It was him and at the same time it wasn't. Life is something you can see. If it isn't there, a person just looks different.
It was the first time that Dad had seen Grandaddy since he died. His hair was all wrong. They had slicked it back (something that anyone who knows my grandfather knows that he would never do). Dad asked for a brush. I watched through tears as he re-brushed his fathers hair with tenderness that would simply break your heart if you saw it. He checked to make sure that Grandaddy was wearing his watch and that he was wearing it the "right" way...with the face on the inside of his wrist. On the way out, Dad asked me if I was ok.
The next day I watched my Dad and his brother do the first half of their father's funeral. I hope one day that I have that kind of strength. My Dad talks about how strong his Dad was. Maybe that's where Dad got it. Maybe that means I've got a shot.