Wednesday - Funeral Musings
Nov. 2nd, 2005 09:35 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ninanevermoreThe week of a family funeral always seems extra surreal to me (as opposed to my everyday surreality that is my norm).
At the funeral, I saw people who I have not seen in years, and I wondered when they got so old. One aunt, who always seemed so substantial and solid in my childhood, reminded me of a tree that has lost almost all of it's foliage, leaving nothing but gray bark and a few wispy leaves. When I was a child, she frightened me, because she always yelled and she had a big scary mole on her face with a hair growing out of it. She would not cut or pluck that hair for fear that it would cause the mole to turn cancerous and kill her.
I remembered looking at her wedding pictures once and being shocked that she was ever pretty. The ravages of time dismayed me as a child, and I found it very alarming that all of the ugly adults that I saw were once fresh-faced children and beautiful young brides. It struck me as a cruel joke.
She seems smaller now, and no longer yells. Even the mole is no longer scary. It made me sad that she no longer frightened me. When did I become this grown up?
I spent most of the funeral in the lobby of the funeral home, keeping an eye on my year-old son who was too squirmy to sit still through the service. Three other women with three other toddlers were also out there. It struck me that funeral homes ought to provide nurseries, since their stock and trade is burying grandparents.
Children are my favorite part of funerals. They laugh, they dance, they squirm; they remind everyone that the most important thing about a death is the life that preceded it.
Driving by the Ferris wheel this morning, the Carney gave a slight smile and a short wave at me, knowing full well that he didn't see me the previous day because of his work. I smiled politely and waved back. You can't fault a guy for doing his job.
At the funeral, I saw people who I have not seen in years, and I wondered when they got so old. One aunt, who always seemed so substantial and solid in my childhood, reminded me of a tree that has lost almost all of it's foliage, leaving nothing but gray bark and a few wispy leaves. When I was a child, she frightened me, because she always yelled and she had a big scary mole on her face with a hair growing out of it. She would not cut or pluck that hair for fear that it would cause the mole to turn cancerous and kill her.
I remembered looking at her wedding pictures once and being shocked that she was ever pretty. The ravages of time dismayed me as a child, and I found it very alarming that all of the ugly adults that I saw were once fresh-faced children and beautiful young brides. It struck me as a cruel joke.
She seems smaller now, and no longer yells. Even the mole is no longer scary. It made me sad that she no longer frightened me. When did I become this grown up?
I spent most of the funeral in the lobby of the funeral home, keeping an eye on my year-old son who was too squirmy to sit still through the service. Three other women with three other toddlers were also out there. It struck me that funeral homes ought to provide nurseries, since their stock and trade is burying grandparents.
Children are my favorite part of funerals. They laugh, they dance, they squirm; they remind everyone that the most important thing about a death is the life that preceded it.
Driving by the Ferris wheel this morning, the Carney gave a slight smile and a short wave at me, knowing full well that he didn't see me the previous day because of his work. I smiled politely and waved back. You can't fault a guy for doing his job.
