Are you ready to switch off your screens and ponder or discuss another writing/conversation prompt during dinner tonight? You want to know about my thoughts on it? Here’s my take:
The longer a life lasts, inevitably, the more funerals you get to go to. Not necessarily over here in the U.S., though, where often the celebration of life is the final moment you gather around the person involved.
I have been to comparatively few funerals, I have to admit. It simply seems that my friends and family are either very much alive, thank goodness, or that they were so far out of reach that nobody expected me to travel. Which doesn’t mean that the event is less real or less affecting.
One of my first funerals was that of someone who had committed suicide and who had always seemed to be such a lively person and very attentive to everybody, me included. It was like a blow to my stomach. The day after the funeral (and ever since) I have been trying to come to grips with them not being who they presented to the outside world. I wondered how the family was holding up and how terribly they must have been suffering to end their life. I can still see that smile and hear that laugh, so contrasting to the ending.
Another one was the funeral of my favorite great-aunt. I wasn’t able to go to her funeral. She passed away in New England and was buried on an Island. It was out of the way, and she wouldn’t have expected me to be there. I was bawling my eyes out, and have been every once in a while, ever since. Not being able to share personally what one would love to tell a person who passed away is probably the hardest it gets. Apart from not being able to touch them. I keep hoping she sees what a huge influence she has had on my life, from sending me my first English children’s books to kindling an interest in science and cherishing her achievements.
I had to cut short my grandmothers’ funeral. That was an extremely tough one. My business car was loaded to the roof with stuff for an exhibition stand at a trade fair. My boss had insisted I be there for setting up the booth that same afternoon. So, I drove up to Cologne, participated in the funeral, drove on, and did what I was paid to do. The next day, I functioned. But I never saw my employment at that job the same way as before, again. My private mourning had been cut short by order.
There was another death in my family that was so different from anything else. My mother. You probably have perceived how much she meant to me, how much she taught me, how much of a paragon she was to me. I was able to say good-bye to her in Germany while she was barely alive, and had to travel back home to the U.S. It was the toughest good-bye for me, ever. Basically, the funeral happened right there and then. And I went back to work, knowing that any day could be her last one. That I would not be at her funeral. The funeral, for me, had been that day I had hugged her for the last time. What was the day after like?
Somehow, I have managed to keep her alive in my mind. I have been talking to her about all the wonderful things that have been happening to me ever since. It’s as if she were simply in a different world with a one-way connection. I keep thinking, she’d be happy for me. I imagine that she sees the sad and the bad stuff, too. But I don’t talk to her about it. THAT stays here. I’d like her to be happy where she is now, if that makes sense to you.
The day after the funeral … Bittersweet. THEIR troubles are over while we have to deal with and overcome some more. But oh, the memories …
The day after… or the weeks, months, and years after—grief doesn’t follow a timeline, does it? When my father passed in 2021, the pain felt overwhelming. But one unexpected blessing has been the dreams. Sometimes at night, I’m fortunate enough to see him again, to interact with him in ways that feel so real. Those moments are fleeting, but they’ve become something I deeply cherish, little gifts that remind me he’s still a part of my life, even if only in my dreams.