She was a sweet and kind woman. All class. Always warm to me on the rare occasions I saw her.
How long ago was the last time? I can’t even remember. Years. Before COVID.
How weird is it that you never know the last time you’re going to see someone? But there’s always a last time.
We’ve all aged. Everyone looks older, including me.
They were married…. how long? Definitely more than 50 years. Might even be close to 60. Incredible. You never see that any more. What a couple. Never saw or even heard about an ounce of animosity between them. A lasting, deeply committed, unconditional relationship that feels unattainable for me.
He lost his wife, his best friend, his life partner. The solitude and loneliness that follows that kind of loss, especially at his age, is unimaginable. Even with his boys close by, it’s not the same. You can’t replace her, that daily interaction, that intimate presence.
He reminds me so much of my father. Looks and sounds so much like him.
When I gave him my condolences, it’s the closest I’ve felt to my father’s presence since he died.
My nephew is crying pretty hard. I’ve never seen so much emotion on his face outside of watching professional sports. I love him so much. My niece is upset too, but seems more in control than him.
Boys to men, we hold in so much emotion. It’s in our DNA. It’s expected. Boys Don’t Cry.
When we’re finally “allowed” to release it, when we’re finally “allowed” to cry, like at a funeral, it can be a tsunami. But what a relief afterwards.
One day I’ll be in that box. It won’t be me though, it’ll just be my body. Hard to remember that, believe that, in melancholy moments like this.
It’s the temporary separation from a loved one that hurts, but it’s not permanent.
I wonder if I’ll be watching this final ritual thing we humans do? I wonder if she’s watching this?
If I do watch, I’m going to be taking notes like a good former Virgo. Who came, who didn’t. Let me count the ex-girlfriends. None? Hahaha. I’m sure Ex. will be there of course. How many friends and family blew me off?
Joking aside, if I have these petty attitudes after I’m dead, then I definitely did something wrong. Maybe I’ll be too busy watching my life rewind with my spirit guide to attend my own funeral. Or maybe we can be in two places at once? Guess I’ll find out.
The priest is of Indian descent, and I can’t understand a fucking word he’s saying. I should have sat closer.
He just botched A’s name. Why do they always do this? The same thing happens at every Catholic funeral I go to. They always fuck up at least one person’s name. The days of having your own “family priest” are long gone. Now you get assigned whoever’s available, and he reads from a script.
And it’s never a “she,” is it? Always a “he.” Another reason I got the fuck out.
This isn’t the time for Catholic critiques, asshole. It’s not why you’re here. Pay attention.
Up down, up down, no kneeling for this apostate, now do a do-si-do, turn around, and wish peace be with you upon those nearby. This much I can do. I always liked that part, honestly.
Recited the Our Father too. There’s a name for that prayer that I can’t remember. Some old habits die hard.
M. is looking at me really confused. I’m doing some things but not others. Said “Amen” a couple of times. She has no clue what’s going on. Who can blame her? This is only the second Catholic mass in her entire life.
When we sat down in the pew she asked me if this was a Jewish church. It was all I could do to stop myself from laughing. It was such a pure and innocent question from a girl we’ve taken pains to separate from all forms of organized religion. I helped create this dynamic and it’s working, but it appears I need to educate her on a few things.
No, I told her, this is a Catholic church, where Christians pray. There are different versions of Christianity, and this is one of them. Where Jewish people worship is called a synagogue. Muslims worship in mosques. Then I pointed to big Jesus on the cross and told her that Jewish people don’t believe in Jesus, so you’d never see his face in a synagogue.
It’s a start.
Later I asked her if she was interested in becoming a part of a religion, if the mass made her feel like she wanted to, or as if she’s missing something in her life.
She shook her head and said no, she doesn’t like being told what to think or believe and would rather build her own beliefs and live her life her own way. (That’s my girl!) I told her she can always change her mind, and there’s nothing wrong with believing in something or belonging to something as long as it’s what you really believe.
I’m starting to understand the Indian priest. It’s like getting on a highway. You have to merge with the accent, hit the accelerator, and then you’re fine. If you get lost, look for landmarks.
Is it racist to wonder whether the church is still attracting white men to the priesthood and why we see so many non-white priests these days? Probably.
White priests don’t have the best track record though, do they? I have yet to see a pedophile priest who wasn’t white.
Is this racist? I’m white, so nah.
Fortunately, the three altar boys look happy and well-adjusted. Pleased to see this.
This is some weird shit to be thinking about during a funeral. Focus.
I’m not getting communion. I no longer qualify. Didn’t get it at my father’s funeral either. Practice what you preach.
Explained to M. what the wafer and wine represent. She nodded like she’d heard some of it before.
A.’s eulogy of his mother was so eloquent. Really beautiful.
I wonder what my eulogy of my mother will sound like if I outlive her? She’s a bit more abrasive than the departed. There’s plenty of good to say about her of course, but it’s important not to recite fiction. A little balance is required.
I’ve thought about this already because I do this weird thing where I ponder eulogies long before I give them. Like years before. I pull snippets of experiences and stories and phrases, and I file them away in my mind for later reference. I should write these down, but I’m too superstitious for that. It’s too presumptuous.
I feel like there are two kinds of eulogies. The kind that sound more like obituaries or speeches, and the kind that sound more anecdotal. Sometimes they’re mixed, but they always lean one way or the other. The ones I’ve given have been more anecdotal with a healthy dose of humor in them. This is easier to do with friends than parents, but I can’t imagine giving a eulogy without making people laugh at least once. Or at least trying to.
M. knows I’ve eulogized nearly a half dozen people–two childhood friends, a grandmother, and my father. She told me she’d speak at my funeral but would be balling so much that she didn’t know if she could finish.
I told that’s what happened to me at my father’s funeral. I barely got through it, and all I remember is releasing this rambling, tear-filled gibberish. People told me afterwards that it was great, but I don’t recall that version at all.
I told M. that her cousins would help her if she needs them. I know they will.
I hate the thought of leaving her alone one day. I hate that she’s an only child and will need to carry this burden alone. I hate the hole I know I’ll leave in her life. This sounds self-important, I know, but it’s not.
I resolve to try and live as long as possible so she’ll be older, more grounded, and less impacted when I die. So the hole of her loss will be smaller. So I hopefully will have been replaced, or mostly replaced, by someone or several someones in her life, or by her own inner strength and independence.
I hope this will be the case, but it’s not totally up to me.
It’s never up to us when we go in the box.
