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Slice of life, on the road.

We left at 4 a.m. to make it to Chicago in time for a 10 a.m. funeral.

My brothers and I were 3 of 25 grandchildren, following a generation of nine children. The funeral procession perfectly filled two vases full of red roses and moved on to a third. Five entire pews were filled with my Abuelo’s direct family and descendants, and the church itself had many more rows of friends, family, and people he had known. Everyone somehow figured out when to stand up and sit down, and the mariachi filled the space with music that my grandfather would have loved.

When we were with him for the last time, my father asked him: “What are you thinking about?”
“Dancing,” he answered. I am sure my grandfather is dancing now.

Published inThoughtsWriting Challenges

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