Last Goodbyes
Sleet and snow marked the day of the funeral. I pulled up to the gloomy, wet exterior of the United Church of Christ and went inside.
I have only been in here for the most solemn of occasions. Baptisms. Weddings. Now, for a funeral; certainly not the last I will likely attend here. From a maze of staircases in the vestibule I worked my way up to the narthex.
Grandmother was arrayed at the front of the church, once again in an open coffin. Floral arrangements splayed out to either side, and a large arrangement from the grandchildren perched precariously on the lower half of the coffin like some colorful sea monster. My wife sat and chatted with some of my cousins, I watched for my sister's family to arrive, and kept Grandfather company. He seemed to be in better spirits than the day before -- I suspect he finally got a decent night's sleep for the first time in many weeks. The nursing staff had dressed him up well, and even sent him over to the church in the good wheelchair -- the one with leather accents and chrome.
My nieces refused to come down from the balcony to see her. I suppose I can understand why; the understanding of the nature of death is still precarious at the ages of seven and eight. After a few quiet, gentle words, I took my place downstairs and sat through the traditional funeral service. I'll spare you the homilies; and merely say that the service felt comforting to those who knew her well. There was laughter, and more than a fair share of tears. Then the family, myself included, was called forward to say our last farewells. My uncle and myself helped grandfather up and supported him as he leaned over her body one last time, and gave her a solemn kiss on the forehead. "See you soon." was all he said. I leaned forward and tucked some of the children's letters into the casket, and as I straightened up, my eye caught the gleam of her watch. Mickey Mouse grinned back at me, his hand pointing resolutely at the nine and the ten. I reached down, rewound the watch, and reset the time. Then I stepped back and gave my place to the next mourner in line.
After some time, the funeral men stepped in, and, in the sight of the family, closed the cover, bolted it down tight, then snapped off the shear bolts on each end. T-clunk. Squick-squick-squick. Bang. Bang. The sounds echoed through the church, and I couldn't seem to swallow the lump in my throat for anything. With my cousins, we each took a handle and carried the coffin out into the cold, and then lifted it into the hearse. I shuffled my way back to my car through the icy slush, and with my family, we followed behind for Grandmother's final ride.
The route took us past where she was born; the first house she and her husband had built after World War II, the school where she served. We wound past the parks where we granchildren had been brought to play; past their second house, through the old neighborhood, and then finally to the cemetery, where we wound through the citys' lost and departed until we reached the family mausoleum.
We carried the casket to the lower chapel; the upper one, while scenic, was too risky with the sleet and ice upon the stairs. The reverend met us in the chamber for final rites, greeting us all with a smile.
"Though we gather here on this day, lost in our thoughts and memories, seemingly lost in our grief at the lost of a dear one, I may take this time to remind you that this should also be a time of thanksgiving. After all -- death is only the beginning!"
The reverend went on briefly, touching on her service to community and church, her piety, her infinite patience, and reminded us that we all would wish to turn back the clock and see her as she was, just once more. I started a bit at this, for this mirrored my thoughts, and I had been dwelling on the fact that in the last ten years, I had only managed to spend a few days here and there with her, always promising to visit sooner; and always finding some excuse to not make the drive.
"So as we were, so shall we always become. From ashes to ashes, dust to dust. From corrution we came, to corruption we shall return, when all are raised at the final day in the glory of God and our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ." At this, he produced a vial of ash, and, much like my father, symbolically scattered it upon the lid of the coffin. Then he nodded to we who stood as pallbearers, and we took the coffin up the winding stairs to her place of rest. Up, past my other grandmother's plaque, past Janet, Ski, Ethel, Ray, and everyone who had come before me. We wound across a balcony that looked over the rest of the burial yard; each of us struggling to keep our footing on the ice. At last we reached the gaping hole in the wall that marked her place.
Setting the casket down, we folded in the handles and turning, stepped back. There was a pause, each of us unsure as what to do -- many of us had attended burials, but had never set a place in a crypt. Finally, I motioned to my youngest cousin to lift the head of the coffin, and I angled it into the dark, confining tube. Together we slid it flush, then I moved him aside, and placing my back to the casket, and forced it deep into the shaft with a great sound of protesting metal and unyielding stone. Finally, I crawled back out, helped place the stone cap and plaque into position, and bolted it tight. We then returned to our loved ones, and lost in meditation, went our separate ways.
It was over, and her chapter in life was closed on a quiet, snowy coda. We who outlived her were free to return to the tedium and routine of our lives, our grief spent, and our souls emptier.
I have only been in here for the most solemn of occasions. Baptisms. Weddings. Now, for a funeral; certainly not the last I will likely attend here. From a maze of staircases in the vestibule I worked my way up to the narthex.
Grandmother was arrayed at the front of the church, once again in an open coffin. Floral arrangements splayed out to either side, and a large arrangement from the grandchildren perched precariously on the lower half of the coffin like some colorful sea monster. My wife sat and chatted with some of my cousins, I watched for my sister's family to arrive, and kept Grandfather company. He seemed to be in better spirits than the day before -- I suspect he finally got a decent night's sleep for the first time in many weeks. The nursing staff had dressed him up well, and even sent him over to the church in the good wheelchair -- the one with leather accents and chrome.
My nieces refused to come down from the balcony to see her. I suppose I can understand why; the understanding of the nature of death is still precarious at the ages of seven and eight. After a few quiet, gentle words, I took my place downstairs and sat through the traditional funeral service. I'll spare you the homilies; and merely say that the service felt comforting to those who knew her well. There was laughter, and more than a fair share of tears. Then the family, myself included, was called forward to say our last farewells. My uncle and myself helped grandfather up and supported him as he leaned over her body one last time, and gave her a solemn kiss on the forehead. "See you soon." was all he said. I leaned forward and tucked some of the children's letters into the casket, and as I straightened up, my eye caught the gleam of her watch. Mickey Mouse grinned back at me, his hand pointing resolutely at the nine and the ten. I reached down, rewound the watch, and reset the time. Then I stepped back and gave my place to the next mourner in line.
After some time, the funeral men stepped in, and, in the sight of the family, closed the cover, bolted it down tight, then snapped off the shear bolts on each end. T-clunk. Squick-squick-squick. Bang. Bang. The sounds echoed through the church, and I couldn't seem to swallow the lump in my throat for anything. With my cousins, we each took a handle and carried the coffin out into the cold, and then lifted it into the hearse. I shuffled my way back to my car through the icy slush, and with my family, we followed behind for Grandmother's final ride.
The route took us past where she was born; the first house she and her husband had built after World War II, the school where she served. We wound past the parks where we granchildren had been brought to play; past their second house, through the old neighborhood, and then finally to the cemetery, where we wound through the citys' lost and departed until we reached the family mausoleum.
We carried the casket to the lower chapel; the upper one, while scenic, was too risky with the sleet and ice upon the stairs. The reverend met us in the chamber for final rites, greeting us all with a smile.
"Though we gather here on this day, lost in our thoughts and memories, seemingly lost in our grief at the lost of a dear one, I may take this time to remind you that this should also be a time of thanksgiving. After all -- death is only the beginning!"
The reverend went on briefly, touching on her service to community and church, her piety, her infinite patience, and reminded us that we all would wish to turn back the clock and see her as she was, just once more. I started a bit at this, for this mirrored my thoughts, and I had been dwelling on the fact that in the last ten years, I had only managed to spend a few days here and there with her, always promising to visit sooner; and always finding some excuse to not make the drive.
"So as we were, so shall we always become. From ashes to ashes, dust to dust. From corrution we came, to corruption we shall return, when all are raised at the final day in the glory of God and our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ." At this, he produced a vial of ash, and, much like my father, symbolically scattered it upon the lid of the coffin. Then he nodded to we who stood as pallbearers, and we took the coffin up the winding stairs to her place of rest. Up, past my other grandmother's plaque, past Janet, Ski, Ethel, Ray, and everyone who had come before me. We wound across a balcony that looked over the rest of the burial yard; each of us struggling to keep our footing on the ice. At last we reached the gaping hole in the wall that marked her place.
Setting the casket down, we folded in the handles and turning, stepped back. There was a pause, each of us unsure as what to do -- many of us had attended burials, but had never set a place in a crypt. Finally, I motioned to my youngest cousin to lift the head of the coffin, and I angled it into the dark, confining tube. Together we slid it flush, then I moved him aside, and placing my back to the casket, and forced it deep into the shaft with a great sound of protesting metal and unyielding stone. Finally, I crawled back out, helped place the stone cap and plaque into position, and bolted it tight. We then returned to our loved ones, and lost in meditation, went our separate ways.
It was over, and her chapter in life was closed on a quiet, snowy coda. We who outlived her were free to return to the tedium and routine of our lives, our grief spent, and our souls emptier.