Folding the flag is putting it to bed for the night

The last time I was in this particular funeral home, the funeral home of choice for my father's side of the family, was when my grandmother died. The first time was when her husband, my grandfather, died. My grandmother was a little not-quite-there by the time her husband died, and I remember sitting with her, holding her hand, when someone came over and said "I'm so sorry your husband's gone". And she said, "no, no, he's not gone, he's right over there" and waved vaguely in the direction of either the open coffin or my uncle, who was rather the spitting image of his father.

Today it was my uncle's turn - all of my grandparents are dead, and the next generation is eroding. My mother, an ex-uncle (long divorced from my aunt, but still the father of my cousins), and now this uncle.

He was a dear man who could beat anyone at ping pong, even when he was playing with a cast iron frying pan. He could catch fish when no one else could. His wife is a tap-dancing puppeteer (well, not at the same time), and after he retired and they moved to California, he managed and emceed her dancing grandma troupe, the Tap-A-Tooties. He cooked, he played tennis, he once played lacrosse against Jim Brown.

After the service at the funeral home, we made our way to the cemetery. Because he'd served in the Army during the Korean War as an artillery forward observer, he had military honors at the gravesite: a bugler played taps, and two uniformed personnel folded the flag, mesmerizingly, in silence.

And then, while we were milling around before heading out for lunch, one of my cousins whipped out her gardening gloves and a trowel, and planted pansies by the big marker for the family plot.

It's why to be buried, I think. Someone will plant pansies, or leave pebbles on the headstone, or bring gingerbread men and pfeffernüsse at Christmas time. Someone will remember you.

We will remember Uncle Phil.