Rite turns

Walking home this morning, I saw a funeral procession drive by that consisted of maybe eight cars following the hearse and felt sorry for the corpse. While I have no particular opinion about what's said or happens at any service following my death, I would like to think if mine went down like that person's did, more than eight vehicles would be tagging along with their hazard lights flashing. But we live in strange times and it's entirely possible that hundreds of other mourners wanted to play a part in the gloomy parade yet couldn't due to restrictions on group gatherings. I thought of that too and felt sorry for the people in the eight cars instead, because if you've ever been in any of those, you know it's one of the loneliest rides you'll ever take. 

Look, of course the virus is scary and keeps me up at night, but one of my biggest fears about it is someone else dying and me being unable to do anything about it. I don't mean that I could intervene and save them somehow. It's just that when a person who's close to you shuffles off the mortal coil, there's an inner response to hug, to cry into shoulders, to make meals for the grieving, to punch a heavy bag, to stare at the sky with admonishment, to do SOMETHING. A boat can sink but it still leaves a wake. Watching the waves ripple across the water is really all that's left. That's what funerals are for, and these days I'm afraid of losing them.

One of my favorite friends told me last week that his wife had been diagnosed with breast cancer, and while it's early and she's okay so far, my brain floated toward the what-ifs right away. What if this, that or thus happens? Nine years ago I got a call from another friend about how his wife had suddenly died the night before. "We lost her," he said. I booked a plane ticket immediately because I knew I had to be there, if not for him, myself. There was never a choice to be made. You go. "We lost her." My grandmother said the exact same thing when we told her Mom was dead. Your daughter crossed over last night, sorry. I guess we have to do something.

The first funeral I can recall attending was for my cousin who was shot in the head by a police sniper. Michael Fane. I'm not kidding. I remember sitting in our family van in a parking lot outside a mall in Missouri, listening to live updates with Mom on the radio until he was killed. I remember seeing his legs jutting out of the salon's entrance on the news, which we had tape recorded for some reason I don't really understand anymore. I'd seen him at Christmas three days before his death, where he'd been animated and seemingly happy. I thought he was cool as hell with his bushy beard and long hair, so the subsequent events seemed quite jarring, including his burial. It still sticks with me. 

I built a funeral pyre for my betta fish when he died, and we incinerated him atop it in a paper jewelry box. Jelly used to stay up late into the night with me, being just as angry as I was about everything, or so I pretended. When we found him lifeless that morning, I sobbed my eyes out and felt like we had to do something to acknowledge the tragedy of it all. If you ever have to plan a funeral with a home, you'll know there's a room they make you tour that's a casket showcase, so you can choose the best one for the deceased, all of which are alarmingly expensive. It might be important in that moment for some, but I remember feeling like I was buying a car just to push it into a lake. You're sorrowful and cornered and they know it, though everybody involved still feels like the dance is necessary somehow. It's something anyway.

Because the point is to hug and to make meals for the grieving and to stare waywardly at the heavens. The point is to acknowledge what's been lost, but the tragedy is that we can't always even share that anymore. Maybe the scariest thing right now is to think that there is no coda. You have to do something. But what if you can't?