My Last Respects

Some people consider being asked to serve as a pallbearer a pain. I've heard men say that it's right up

there with serving on jury duty, or donating blood. But I've never looked at it in that light.

I consider it an honor. It's one last thing you can do for someone on this earth. 

My sister-in-law, that I've known almost as long as I've known my wife, asked if I'd be a pallbearer for her only son.

It wasn't a hard decision. In fact there was no hesitation in my voice when I said I would. It was an easy decision.

I have a photograph of him when he was about five. He was sitting on the hood of his dad's 1961 Chrysler Imperial with his two older sisters. They were all smiling as children do.

In the years when my marriage was young, all our nieces and nephews spent as much time with us as possible, because we were "the cool aunt and uncle."

Even when were were broke, we had hotdogs, some chips, and ice tea. We also had vinyl records of the music they loved.

We introduced John Michael and our other nieces and nephews to The Eagles, Queen, The Doobie Brothers, The Rolling Stones, and Bob Dylan.

I thought about all these things yesterday standing in the sweltering sun beside the graveside of John Michael. 

He must have had an inkling that his days were numbered, because he'd told his kids that he wanted Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen played at his funeral.

His mom is a religious woman and didn't feel comfortable with the song being played in the chapel. But she was OK with it being played by the graveside.  His ex-wife Diane produced a small boombox, and punched the play button with her index finger.

All of a sudden, Freddy Mercury was singing to all that was gathered. The clergy frowned noticibly, and the undertaker squirmed. But I found myself smiling as Freddie sang: 

Mama, ooh,

Didn't mean to make you cry,

If I'm not back again this time tomorrow,

Carry on, carry on as if nothing really matters. 

RIP John Michael