As people file in, we make a beeline for those closest to the deceased. We console and pay our sympathies and follow the protocol ingrained in us from childhood. Tears are shed, even if we didn't know the one laying at the front of the room. Scientists call this empathy, the ability to physically express what others are feeling. Though there are other examples, this is the strongest I've ever seen.
And then we sit down and hear a man or a woman give a speech about the life of the person or God's plan or that this time together with family is a celebration. And no one quite believes them. And then maybe red-eyed attendants share stories about the one who is gone. And everyone laughs through our own tears, but the smile always ends up falling again. And then the service ends and we file back out of the room, extending touches and soft smiles and the occasional inside joke to break a depressed smile from one another.
The processional crawls through traffic and everyone starts to feel a little better. The familiarity of our own cars makes the whole endevour a little brighter. Parents have teaching moments and kids loosen their ties and hair ribbons. Slack falls into the father's shoulders and moms kick off their heels. Sometimes we crack jokes or talk about how we would like to go. We speak free and light on a topic that will be very sad should it ever come to pass.
Then the graveyard comes into view and the weight comes back. The tensions and shoes and ties and hair ribbons all come back on and when we step out of our cars, smiles once again feel awkward and out of place. Words are spoken and prayers are whispered and the casket is lying atop its hole. Sometimes we know who lay next door; sometimes it's just a name on a stone. A foreign concept even with the lid to the plot sitting off to the side, wearing the name of the one in the box.
Then the ceremony is over and a stranger stands to say we may leave, even though it always feels like that "Go in peace" is much more a "Shoo". People scatter, no one ready to go back to our cars, but we like to put some space between us. After a while, we group off with others closer to our age, seeking a comfort from someone who might just understand. The topic of why we are all here is avoided, conversation instead small talk and catching up and making plans to get together later.
Eventually we all find our way to our cars. We have things to do now, things that had escaped our notice until the sensation of togetherness faded away. We turn our backs to the one going in the ground and walk back toward the light. Back to happiness and jobs and life. I can't imagine the one lying there is sad to see us go. I don't expect loneliness to set in as they watch us walk away. I think they would see the irony of it all. We all walk away from the dead, but we face forward to Death.
At least, I think that Grand-Aunt Donagene would have seen that, and I think Grandma and Grandpa would have too. I don't know if they can see us anymore, but I like to think they do. It makes all the pain fade away. When I think of them laughing, I want to laugh, too, through the pang of loneliness in my chest.
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Out of everything today, the party included, my favorite set of stories was when we were sitting in the processional, with that first wave of ease washing over us. We really did talk about what we wanted to happen to us after we died and, for the most part, we ended up laughing.
My mother, for example, said: "I want you to take any part of my body that worth something and donate it, specifically my brain and spinal cord to the MS Society. And then I want to be cremated. And I don't really care where you scatter me. Whatever's precious to us at the time. If we're still at that house, put me in a garden. If we're by the sea, throw me in the water. And then, I want you to throw a big party. I want people singing and laughing and food and stories."
It was my father's response that made us all laugh. "Geez, I can't even get away from parties when you're dead?"
My brother, on the other hand, said: "I don't want people crying when I die. I don't want a thousand-dollar casket. Just find a hole and throw me in....I want a roast. I want people to talk shit. I want people to cry, not because they're sad I'm gone, but because they got offended. And then I want someone to kick out the wusses that cried."
My dad and I didn't say anything. I don't know what his plans are, and I certainly don't know mine. But my favorite quote from that time in the car was what my mother had said about her dad: "My dad always said he wanted to die one day after my mom died. Because he didn't want Mom to have to go through all the pain and grief and suffering, but he didn't want to live without her."
The true heartbreak of that quote is that Nana is alive and well, but Papa died years before I was even born.
— KGratiaM
