Monday, November 28, 1983: The day of my father’s funeral…
I remember being at the funeral home and us sitting in the front row by my father’s casket. I believe the funeral mass was set for 10am at our parish church, St. Stephen of Hungary. That morning’s viewing was typically set for just the immediate family to have one last look at the deceased.
I don’t remember who else was with us. I seem to remember other people being there besides my mother, my brother and I. It couldn’t have been just the 3 of us, but I can’t remember.
What I do remember is, when it came time to close the coffin, the funeral director asked whoever else was there to come up and pay their final respects. We – Mom, Emery and I – would have the last look, the last goodbye. Anyone else would have been escorted out when that moment came.
And when it did, I remember my mother and brother standing up immediately to walk over to the casket. Me – I couldn’t get out of my seat. I remember gripping the sides of the chair with both hands and shaking my head. “No – I can’t do this” – I know I thought it, but I’m pretty sure I said it out loud as well.
I couldn’t. I didn’t want to say goodbye to my daddy.
I think somebody came over to me and helped me stand up, urging me on to do what I had to do. It might have been the funeral director, although I really don’t know.
I walked up to my father’s casket and looked down at his face. I’m pretty sure I said, “Goodbye, Dad – I love you.” But I know for a fact that I leaned over and gave him a kiss on the cheek.
His cheek was cold – so cold.
I never in my wildest dreams thought I would do something like that. But – this was my father. I didn’t think about it. I just did it.
I gave my father a kiss goodbye.
I also remember quickly turning away as we walked out so that I didn’t see them closing the casket.
My mother had requested that the limousine and hearse take a one-block detour so that we could drive by our apartment building one last time with my dad.
I honestly don’t remember much of the funeral mass. My mother had very carefully chosen the music she wanted played and the hymns that were sung, along with just the right person to sing them. The only one that sticks out in my mind is “Softly and Tenderly Jesus is Calling” – which was utterly heartbreaking.
I don’t remember much from the cemetery either. I think there might have been a little snow on the ground. My father is buried in St. Raymond’s Cemetery in the Bronx, NY. So many of my family members are laid to rest there as well, including my father’s parents, his brother Frank who passed away in 1978, my mother’s father, my great aunt Margaret…
My father was buried on his mother-in-law’s birthday – I believe my grandmother turned 76 that day. After the funeral mass and interment at the cemetery, we went to a place that was tradition for our Eastern European Yorkville community – Castle Harbor Casino Restaurant, also in the Bronx – for the post-funeral meal.
The agonizing long 4-day Thanksgiving weekend was over. My father was dead and buried – gone from my life forever. Seven years later, when I got married at St. Stephen’s and had my reception at Castle Harbor, he was not there to walk me down the aisle or dance with me to “Daddy’s Little Girl”…
Forty years have passed now. They say it “gets easier” as time passes, but I don’t know if that’s true. It changes, I think. It becomes…different… You go from unimaginable grief to trying to bear the reality that your loved one is never going to walk through the door again – to realizing the pain of knowing everything that person missed out on. In my father’s case, he never got to retire, he never got to grow old with my mother, he never lived to see his namesake – his grandson Andrew. My father would have been floating on cloud nine, knowing and loving my boy.
Forty years without you, Dad. So much time…so much missed… You would have turned 96 this year, if you had made it this long. The pain of remembering that now long-ago Thanksgiving Day has morphed as well. I can enjoy the holiday again, but it has and never ever will be the same. But I think of my father every year, every day, and still muse over what might have been. I wish I could see you in my dreams – see your face, hear your voice… I loved you so, so much. I still miss you terribly. I cannot wait to see you again in Paradise. You were my everything. Love you, Dad.
Oddly Enough 