Part of a Community
With my younger brother driving the pallbearers, I sat in the front seat, resting my head against the warm seatbelt that had been directly in the sunlight when the van was parked at the church. I was feeling ill, and my eyes looked out scanning the homes of the small town where my nana had lived. The homes were dusty in the dry Arizona air. Many did not have proper kept lawns, the November mountain weather keeping them nice and golden. There were many chain linked fences for the front yards, some cinder blocks. The sidewalks were dirt paths between the homes' fences and the curb.
We passed an intersection where a police officer had stopped traffic for the caravan of vehicles that went down to the cemetary. The police officer was standing next to his car, his hat off, held against his chest. That's a nice gesture I thought. I couldn't imagine the motorcycle traffic officers back in Long Beach taking their helmets off each and every intersection.
As we drove on, since we were only four cars back, I noticed that a car pulled off ahead. I observed if it had any trouble as we passed it. It just waited at the side with its signal on. I turned back to look down the road. Moving down the highway, I saw the oncoming traffic pulling over. Pickups and SUVs pulled to the side of the road as the caravan passed. I listened for sirens from the police escorts and heard none. The vehicles were indeed stopping for us, for my nana.
I asked my Tía about it later on, and she said that's how it is in small towns. She added that she never sees it in Tucson, but out here, in Safford, Arizona, it's common.
Yesterday, I was driving from my niece's baptism to the reception. I was travelling quickly down the 710 when I observed funeral stickers on a row of cars in the slow lane. I got even with the hearse and thought of Safford and me in this large universe that is Los Angeles. Without a place to pull over, I bowed my head. It's all I could think of doing. I then sped along, leaving the funeral procession behind.
We passed an intersection where a police officer had stopped traffic for the caravan of vehicles that went down to the cemetary. The police officer was standing next to his car, his hat off, held against his chest. That's a nice gesture I thought. I couldn't imagine the motorcycle traffic officers back in Long Beach taking their helmets off each and every intersection.
As we drove on, since we were only four cars back, I noticed that a car pulled off ahead. I observed if it had any trouble as we passed it. It just waited at the side with its signal on. I turned back to look down the road. Moving down the highway, I saw the oncoming traffic pulling over. Pickups and SUVs pulled to the side of the road as the caravan passed. I listened for sirens from the police escorts and heard none. The vehicles were indeed stopping for us, for my nana.
I asked my Tía about it later on, and she said that's how it is in small towns. She added that she never sees it in Tucson, but out here, in Safford, Arizona, it's common.
Yesterday, I was driving from my niece's baptism to the reception. I was travelling quickly down the 710 when I observed funeral stickers on a row of cars in the slow lane. I got even with the hearse and thought of Safford and me in this large universe that is Los Angeles. Without a place to pull over, I bowed my head. It's all I could think of doing. I then sped along, leaving the funeral procession behind.
posted by matty at 10:43 PM
2 Comments:
It's interesting how sometimes grief can make you feel more connected to the world and a community. I definitely had some of those feelings when my mom died.
This is a nicely written piece, Matt. I'm very sorry about your grandma. I hope writing helps you move through the pain. Remember, we never get over the people we lose, we just have to learn to go on living the best we can.
Thank you for the thoughts, Liz. You're a sweetheart. Always have been.
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