Saying Goodbye

Last night I attended the funeral services for my uncle James Clement Beard, who passed away this week at the age of 72. Jim was a welder for many years and I'll never forget the time he surreptitiously handed me a metal Christmas tree that he had welded, which I still have and set out every holiday. We were at my aunt and uncle's house for a family Christmas gathering and to my knowledge he never gave one of his welding art pieces to any other niece or nephew. He must have like my response because the next year he handed me a pair of candle sticks that weighed about 20 pounds. Because he was quiet and kept to himself during our family gatherings, I always felt special to have received these gifts. The strange thing about funerals to me is how it gives you a bigger picture of the person's life--all the parts and people they connect with coming together with their stories and perceptions, revealing characteristics and sides of the person you never knew about. You're left feeling that the grieved is a mystery and at the same time made whole now. For instance there was a pair of dice in the casket with Jim and when I asked what that meant someone said to me, didn't you know he was a magician--a master a slight of hand card and dice tricks. It reminds me of a passage from a short story I wrote some years ago, which I will include below. But first let me say this--Jim's wife Gloria is one of the strongest and most poised woman I know. And it is clear that his kids (James and Barbara) and grand kids were close and full of love and admiration for Jim, which was reciprocated in kind. My heart goes out to them. Peace to you all.
Now for the passage:

Sometimes I worry I’ll die, a car wreck or heart attack, and I will leave nothing behind but a few images in the minds of people I knew. And all those images wouldn’t add up to stand for who I was. No one would have known me. I picture my funeral, my wife and two sons crying for the half of the man they knew. Or my few close friends, grieving for another part of me, the side that likes to fish and throw back a few domestics. Maybe a handful of people from work would show, say they’d miss talking about food with me, my business sense. No one knows all my parts. My world alone in my hotel room. All those solitary dinners at the hands of impersonal waiters. The hours, miles, years in my company car with its limitless gas and radio. All that thinking. My wife complains I don’t talk enough about my feelings. She doesn’t know that the years spent alone driving has trained me not to. No one asks.