The Funeral

"Why don't you sit by your grandfather?" my mother suggested as we walked in. "He would like that."
"Okay."
I gave him a brief hug and settled into the seat next to him. Throughout the memorial service, my eyes kept going back to his face. He takes grief hard, like I do. My mom had said often that people in our family sometimes "died of a broken heart." My grandfather's face betrayed no emotion. I wondered what he was thinking.
After the service, he said he wanted to talk to both of us. He put one arm around my shoulders and the other around my mother's. "Can you both do me a favor?" he asked.
"What is it, Dad?" my mom asked, obviously as puzzled as I was.
"Just promise me you'll do me this one favor."
"What is it?" I asked.
"What do you need, Dad?"she repeated.
"Can you go to church with me on Sunday?" he pleaded, like someone begging their child to quit taking drugs.
My body instantly stiffened. My mother pulled back from him. "Dad, we can't do that; you know how busy we are this weekend!" she said.
My grandfather threw up his hands and moved away like we'd physically struck him, as with perfect timing another relative caught my mom's attention and started up a conversation.
I stared after him, my mouth open. I now knew exactly what he was thinking about throughout the service. I could probably describe his exact thought process, in fact...unless he was planning to use the funeral as an "opening" all along.
I wondered then if I was forever destined to cause him grief.

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