Great American Novel

Here's something that will appear in my G.A.N. some day. I'm sure it will end up a lot more polished than this and may not even make its way into the movie, but it was a pretty touching moment for me.
This version has been shortened for blogging purposes.
**Please note, my senior creative writing professor made me swear that I would never write about my grandmothers again.
Oops.
Sorry, Allyson. I love 'em. ; )

- - -

Shortly after Richard and I got married, my great-uncle Charles died.
My dad, another Charles, and I escorted my blind grandmother, Shirley, to Minot, North Dakota by train to attend the funeral.
The ride there was uneventful and we slept the entire way. (Nothing compared to the ride home. Another blog, another time.)
Once we reached Minot, we went to the cousin's house to change clothes and get ready for the funeral which was only an hour or so later.
When we arrived at the church, I held Grandma Shirley's hand and escorted her through the premises. We located all the important rooms: ladies' room, sanctuary, family waiting / mourning room, library, etc.
Then she asked me to take her to see her brother.
Uncle Charles was laid out in his casket looking better than I had seen him in years. I described to her that his hair was very gray, that he was wearing a blue sportcoat with a maroon tie and his hands--those McClain hands--were folded on top of his abdomen.
"Where?" She said. "Where are his hands?"
"On his stomach."
"No, show me."
I took her hands and put them on her brothers.
It was that moment that she began to cry. Gasping, deep, silent sobs.
And then she stopped.
"That was the only time I've cried over him. My brother."