When Are You Coming Home?

I wanted to sing a song for my grandmother when we laid her to rest. I wanted to sing or do something musical, but the musical genes in this family seem to have passed me by (singing with the dog from the shower in the mornings notwithstanding).

I wanted to sing for her, because she used to love it so much when we sang -- even if most of the songs we sang were goofy ones. And that was just the problem. I couldn't get past the goofy tunes echoing in my head.

We buried my grandmother in the Bunting plot last fall, next to my grandfather. My brother sang a song while his children and mine assisted with percussion. My cousin played her flute, and we all sang with her. Jasper (of course) played the violin.

But I did not sing. Instead, I said some words.

It has been many years since I left the midwest and came to Texas. And for years after I left, without fail when I saw my grandmother, the first thing she would do would be to take my hand in hers. (She always held our hands when she had something important to say.) She would take my hand and ask me, When are you coming home from Texas, Davy?

For a long time I didn't know the answer. Then after a while, I discovered that the answer was never, but I didn't have the heart to tell her.

I don't know, Nani. I really do like it in Texas.

Then we would talk about something else. And she would watch the sun dancing on the waves and listen to the sound of the wind in the forest canopy and smile at sight of great grandchildren running barefoot on the sand. She would sit on the top of the hill and look out over the water at the sun dancing on the waves as it had done year after year, summer after summer in that place.

I don't know, Nani.

I was never able to explain. And I wasn't able to sing a song for her when we gathered to say goodbye.

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