Saying good bye to Pop Pop

Ginny sat perfectly straight and still, her little hands neatly folded in her lap. Eyes never leaving the hypnotic pendulum of the antique grandfather clock in the corner, she seemed oblivious to her surroundings. Only if you looked closely could you see a smidgen of emotion with the slightest tremble of her lower lip.

Celia stole a glance at her daughter, and in retrospect realized that this was no place to bring a seven year old. But Ginny had thrown a tantrum, insisted she was a big girl, and demanded to see her beloved Pop Pop one more time.

Getting ready this evening, Ginny had played the part of child mature beyond her years: choosing what to wear herself (a navy dress, appliquéd with pink flowers and matching ribbon for her long blonde hair), telling funny stories from her day at school that made them both erupt into nervous  giggles, and even consoling Celia as they walked hand in hand to the front door of the funeral home. But the strange smells, hysterical crying, piped-in somber hymns and intonations melted her bravado.

“Oh you poor dear,” a stooped, white-haired and heavily wrinkled woman said, patting Ginny on the head with her bony fingers.  “He was so fond and proud of you. Do you know you look just like your mama?”

Celia crossed the linoleum-floored room in three steps and swooped Ginny into her arms.

“It’s time to go honey,” Celia said. “Are you sure you don’t want to say goodbye now?”

“No,” Ginny said, her eyes downcast and shaking her head slowly from side-to-side. “No, I don’t think so.”

Celia turned slightly and nodded once.  Holding Ginny’s head against her chest, she covered Ginny’s  exposed ear with her hand as tightly as she could as the coffin lid thudded shut.