Help Emelyse And Her Family

2

Warren is 2 years old today.

Seems incredible.

And how can you have been gone for so very many months?

You were here when he came into this world.
You were here to enjoy him, to laugh at him, to teach him to laugh.
You were here to be his pappaw -- his a-a; his ya-ya -- before he was even old enough to know there was anyone beyond himself and his parents.
You were here.

And then you were not.
You didn't see him crawl or walk or run or climb.
I'm not sure you if you saw him sit up on his own.

But you saw him laugh.
You made him laugh.
You made him happy.

And you slipped away before his first birthday, and here it is his second birthday already.

It isn't right that you aren't here.
Wasn't right then; isn't right now.
It will never be right.

Wish you could see what a little man he is. You would have great fun arguing nonsense with him. He can give as good as it gets, that's for sure.

Warren is a happy healthy two years living and you are going on two years dead. And I know you would still adore him, as he would you.

Promise with Problems

I'm finally able (with Tammy's help) to keep that last promise to you -- to put you into the ground. This is what you wanted, and, although I don't understand it, I promised. (Or I think I did. We discussed it, and I know it's what you wanted, so it doesn't really matter if the promise was explicit or implied.

But after all this time, keeping that promise comes with problems.

The biggest one, to me, has been about notifying your family.
Should I or shouldn't I?

After all, for them, it has been over and done with for a long time. They have had to deal with life; births and other deaths. Too damned many other deaths.

But, how can I not tell them? Just maybe they need closure, too. Maybe they need to feel that what remains of you here is finally, firmly, and forever at rest. Maybe the interment is as important a ritual to them as it was to you.

I don't want to dredge up for them old hurts, like losing you. Like not knowing you were that sick. We have lived with it every day, because you were an everyday part of us.

Also, and most importantly, just maybe they need "the words" to lay you to rest.

They may have felt cheated somehow that there were no "words" at your memorial service. No comfort spoken aloud that you have been welcomed into the arms of a loving god.

They didn't know, or perhaps didn't understand, how adamantly you did not want that. That it was something we had discussed and considered, although there was no definite plan.
Death snuck up on us before we could work out the details.

I did what I could for you, with what I knew and what we had talked about.
But I can certainly understand if your family felt some incompleteness with the process.

Because I did, Rex.
I have to tell you, I did.

I am having a priest at the graveside.
You will be put into the ground with Christian words of faith, hope, and comfort.

I cannot put you in the cold hard ground without that.

I need the words said.

I need the ceremony and the service; the pomp and circumstance, if you want to see it that way.
This interment is for you; the ceremony is for me, and for anyone who has felt unfinished without it for you.

I know you understand. Now that I've explained it.
I do feel a bit uneasy, because I know you didn't want "religion."

That's one reason for choosing a priest instead of a pentecostal -- a more restrained ceremony. (Another reason is that I was raised Catholic and the rituals are bred into me. And the final reason is that it was much easier to arrange through Rita who is active in the Church, when I barely know any other Church or preacher.)

But I can live more easily with the conscience of words against not-exactly what you wanted.

I'm confused.
I'm sorry.
I'm missing you.

But I am keeping this last promise and putting you in a permanent place of rest.

Finally