The Dead Joke, Too or How Funeral Director Families Spend Thanksgiving

We stood at the top of the "Italian District" in Mount Calvary Cemetery, surrounded by D'somethings and Name-O's as far as the eye could see. The cool, November breeze whipped the ruffles on my skirt and made the flowered arrangements surrounding us bend and sway. I stood just off to the side of the small clan, feeling as if I'm intruding on something sacred. I had never had the joy of meeting Ronald A. Kent in his time on Earth and I wasn't exactly sure if I belonged in front of his grave, the soil not quite settled, the grass still patchy and new.

"Do you want me to stay in the car?" My voice sounds like a stranger, smaller than I've ever heard it.

"No, of course not," Tyler takes my hand in his and gives it a big squeeze. "You're going to be family."

And with that, he pulls me closer, completing the half-circle. We are truly an eclectic bunch.

Walter, Tyler's father, bookends the group, toeing the small memory stone bearing his father's name. His voice is gruff as he complains about how far it's sunken in and the sun bounces off of his tanned face. He is so much like a bear, lumbering more than walking as he shifts his weight from one broad shoulder to the next.

Beside him is Aunt Concetta, a sweet woman with an air of desperation in her laughter. Her eyes are always wide, as if constantly expecting some grand surprise, a trait that is somewhat unsettling in a cemetery.

Standing directly in front of her husband's plot was the family matriarch, Miss Grace. She was a bird-like woman, thin and frail, leaning heavily on her walker. She listens half-heartedly as her son explains the little intricacies of the burial process, like how Ron was buried two feet lower do to a large stone at the head of the grave. These are things she's heard a million times before, and I have a feeling that the information is just for me.

Beside me to my left stood Aunt Linda, the youngest and the kookiest of the group. Her first reaction to standing beside her father's grave is to whip out her iPhone and turn on the ghost radar app, which supposedly takes electromagnetic fields and "translates" them, just like those machines on Ghost Hunters and whatnot.

"I told Daddy we'd be here," she said simply, giving her mother an affectionate pat on the back.

And then there was Tyler and I, his leather jacket draped unnecessarily around my shoulders (chivalry never died with him). He stood tall, head held high, simply allowing himself to think. I took that moment to realize just how similar he was to his father, from his deep brown hair, his tanned skin, to his bearish gait. I wondered, for a moment, if that was what Ron looked like, and if that was what my future son might look like.

And then, shattering the contemplative silence, was Aunt Linda's high laughter. We all looked over at her, head thrown back, hands shaking. We waited for her to catch her breath, to wipe the tears from her carefully lined eyes.

"It..." She gasped for air again, holding up her phone. "It says 'heavy'."

We glanced back to the grave, wondering if there was some legitimacy to this 99 cent download. And then we got the joke. Perched on top of his father's final resting place was Walter, stomping about the ill-growing grass. He stopped, his shoulder slumping in defeat, but his smile growing larger.

"Yeah, I know Dad, I'm fat..."

We all laughed, a chorus echoing off of Mount Calvary. And in that moment, I felt like I really did belong.