The Memorial
Technically, last night's memorial for Shannon was only the third I've been to in my life. There was a great aunt, whose name I don't remember, when I was seven. All I remember from that one was being bored and hot (it was outdoors in Odessa in the summer) and kicking some dirt into her grave. Then there was Shawn, Woody's partner, who died a few years ago. Beautiful service. Simple. In the parking lot beforehand, reflecting on what was happening, I wrote what I consider to be one of my best poems (which has never ever been read by anyone ever).
Then last night. I got there just seconds after they wrapped up the opening piece---a poem of Shannon's with music and pictures. I heard it was amazing. The rest of the ceremony was nice. I didn't think I was going to cry at all, until Hillary (damn you!) started singing. I lost it. The poigancy of the words she read (written by Sheila years before) and the crystalline nature of her voice just ... well, it did me in. The rest of the service seemed fairly standard. Several hymns, which everyone knew but me. Some call-and-response with the pastor, which everyone seemed to know but me. Lots of God.
At Thanksgiving, when my family does the big prayer, I usually just stand there, head up, quietly. I'm agnostic, and praying seems silly to me. But last night, I decided to play along. This wasn't the place to make any sort of personal statement, even if nobody would've noticed me not saying the prayer anyway. Still, church continues to depress and confuse me.
Afterward, as we filed out, I came across Jeff Knight and Tonie Roque. I haven't seen them in a couple of years, I believe. It was surprising, but it was refreshing. A memorial makes people take personal inventory---Am I living the right way? Am I being fair and just? Am I being a douchebag?
And seeing Jeff, who taught me all I know about guitar playing and a lot about pathos in performance, was a wake-up call. We ended on awkward and utlimately dumb terms, mostly of my doing. I miss that guy and that woman. And it's sad that it takes a death to make you reasses your life's priorities, but that's how it goes.
So to Jeff and Tonie, but also to anyone I've ever mistreated or hurt, please know this: I recognize how I fucked up, and I'm sorry for it.
Then last night. I got there just seconds after they wrapped up the opening piece---a poem of Shannon's with music and pictures. I heard it was amazing. The rest of the ceremony was nice. I didn't think I was going to cry at all, until Hillary (damn you!) started singing. I lost it. The poigancy of the words she read (written by Sheila years before) and the crystalline nature of her voice just ... well, it did me in. The rest of the service seemed fairly standard. Several hymns, which everyone knew but me. Some call-and-response with the pastor, which everyone seemed to know but me. Lots of God.
At Thanksgiving, when my family does the big prayer, I usually just stand there, head up, quietly. I'm agnostic, and praying seems silly to me. But last night, I decided to play along. This wasn't the place to make any sort of personal statement, even if nobody would've noticed me not saying the prayer anyway. Still, church continues to depress and confuse me.
Afterward, as we filed out, I came across Jeff Knight and Tonie Roque. I haven't seen them in a couple of years, I believe. It was surprising, but it was refreshing. A memorial makes people take personal inventory---Am I living the right way? Am I being fair and just? Am I being a douchebag?
And seeing Jeff, who taught me all I know about guitar playing and a lot about pathos in performance, was a wake-up call. We ended on awkward and utlimately dumb terms, mostly of my doing. I miss that guy and that woman. And it's sad that it takes a death to make you reasses your life's priorities, but that's how it goes.
So to Jeff and Tonie, but also to anyone I've ever mistreated or hurt, please know this: I recognize how I fucked up, and I'm sorry for it.