On the way to church, a couple of weeks ago, I happened to notice, for the first time, a pyramid shaped mausoleum in a cemetary we have passed at least 50 times. I asked Paul if he knew anything about it. It was his first citing too. I asked if we could return and check it out after church and he agreed.
As it turned out, we didn’t recognize the name and there was nothing explaining the choice of architecture.
A mournful cry rose from the backseat, “I miss Grandpa. It’s not right the way he died.” It was Christopher, who thought we were approaching my father’s grave. He wasn’t mourning the manner, so much as the fact of his grandfather’s .
Eden, who was five months old when my dad died, quickly joined in, “I miss Grandpa too. He souldn’t have died.”
“But Sweetheart,” Lydia explained, “Grandpa’s heart was very, very sick. He was in the hospital for a long, long time. The doctors and the nurses did everything they could, but they couldn’t save him.”
“Dey sould!” Eden spat.
Paul and I exchanged sad smiles and I blinked back stinging tears.