It is an image now ingrained in my memory. Last week I attended the funeral of a friend whose life ended suddenly and too soon, particularly for the twin eight-year old boys who are now fatherless. At the conclusion of the service, the pallbearers accompanied the casket toward the back of the church – as did the boys. Their hands were placed lightly on the back of their dad’s casket, much like the thousands of times they held his hands walking on the beach or across the street.

I could not see their faces as they walked by, so cannot determine whether they comprehended the events of the day or the days after their dad died. It was a surreal experience, but not because it reminded me of my dad’s funeral. In fact, I remember little to nothing about his funeral.

What will they recall twenty years from now? Does an eight-year old have a better grasp on what was happening than a seven-year old? My sense is that it all depends upon the individual child and their particular relationship with their parent.

It probably also differs when boys lose a father or when girls lose a mother. And it probably matters how dependent a child is on a parent and how doting a parent is on their child. My father was a lot of things, but I do not think he was doting. Nor was I a terribly dependent child. He was gone before a real relationship could be established. How deep our bond would have been I do not know and likely never will.

I know we shared a love of sports and of competition. We might have bonded over hours spent in the backyard with the soccer ball. Or not. Who knows if I would have been lured by the glorious game had he lived. If he had lived, I might very well have played with my Barbie dolls, rather than throwing them off the balcony every time my cousins came to visit. Those are scenarios that reside in the netherworld of conjecture. We live in the real world.

It is my mother who can recall the real world, the logistical details of those days. The funeral was on Saturday. A nun from Summit Country Day School, where my brother and I attended, came by to run through passages to be read at the service. They were read by classmates of my brother’s.

She can remember the conversation she had with the priest about what Catholic doctrine was relative to taking “extraordinary measures” to keep my father alive. She did not want to extend his life, which meant she did not want to extend his pain. Thankfully, Catholic teaching was aligned with her wishes, so my father could remain at home with hospice care.

Unlike my friend, my father was not buried until spring because the ground was still frozen. For some odd reason I have always referred to that fact as my father being put on layaway. I think he would appreciate the humor in that. He would also appreciate characterizing the post-funeral gathering at our house as a “party.” No, there was no open bar (we are Irish, so I am confident there was alcohol). People came by the house, but all I remember were two girls playing with my Star Wars action figures. And being protective of my valuables, I promptly hid them in my closet.

Why I remember that, but cannot grab ahold of any other memories is a question that will have to be answered by St. Peter. It was been a week since the funeral and my mind remains busy reliving the service. And that image of two boys and their father together for the last time.