Primo Pauletti, Pop Pop, Continued...

At the funeral home my grandfather's casket sat on the opposite wall from where my grandmother's did the year before. The chairs were all turned the other way but everything else was different: the bouquets surrounding the casket, the mints and tissue boxes on every side table, the soft bulbs reflecting off the cranberry rug, flushing everything in a soft pink hugh.

My mom, Nancie, and Pop Pop's sister Mary Kanyock sat in the first three seats against the side wall. My brothers and I, along with Aunt Steffie, my father, and my Uncle George (my Aunt Mary's son) sat in the remaining seats that L-ed out parallel to the casket. Behind us, some of the rows of padded wooden chairs were filled with family and close friends that had payed their respects and sat conversing amongst each other.

The first people to come through was an old couple.

"Your father was a good friend," the little man said to my mom. "And a good person. I'm sorry."

He made his way down the line shaking hands; his wife did the same repeating her condolences. The old guy's white collared shirt was tucked into his chest far above his belly button. His short white hair thinned at the back of his head but grew thicker where his big square glasses clung snuggly around his ears.

As he got close, some distant memory faught it's way forward. I recognized the hunched old timer, it was Mr. Serafino, the barber, twelve years later, twelve years older. He came up to me and told me he was sorry. Before I could say anything, Mr. Serafino and his wife, without hesitation, continued on, out of the room, and out the door. I don't know if he knew who I was, or even remembered that he had given me haircuts, either way I was upset with myself for not saying something in time. There was a good chance I would never see him again.