Sunday, November 12, 2017

To Make a Demon Weep

It was while waking back to my parents’ van after viewing my sister’s body that it welled up inside me.  
“Hey…”  I called out to everyone.  My folks, my sister’s two kids, a niece and nephew all grown up, my niece’s live-in boyfriend, who would drive us back to their house.  
“I just want to say something.  I need to say something and get it out before…  We start talking about other things and…  I don’t have the chance.”  
Everyone stopped.  They turned to look at me.  They waited while I said whatever it was I had stopped them to tell them.  
I paused.  And realized I didn’t really know what I wanted to say.  
It was better at my uncle’s memorial, which had taken place four days before in California.  I think it was because of what happened at my uncle’s “Life Memorial” that I felt the urge to speak about my sister.  
My uncle had made it clear that he didn’t want a traditional funeral service to mark his passing.  There was to be no viewing.  No church service.  He was to be cremated and his ashes were to be scattered around the trees he planted behind his wife’s business.  The family could have a “Life Memorial” if they wanted one.  Which is what they decided to do.  
A tent with tables and chairs was set up.  Caterers served rice & beans, street tacos and quesadilla with chicken, pork or beef.  Beer, wine and soft drinks sat in buckets of ice along one wall.  A podium faced the open side of the tent.  A microphone was set in a stand on top of it.  
My cousin Ace got it started.  He spoke about his Dad, why he, as well as his brother Michael and adopted brother Brian wore blue velour shirts and jeans (it was uncle Al’s favorite outfit).  He invited everyone to come up a share a memory about Al.  
People took turns doing so.  Some talked about how much they were going to miss my uncle.  Some about his generosity and willingness to help others.  Some told funny stories about time spent with him, making us laugh.  
Ace surprised me by returning to the podium and talking about Virginia.  He talked about “another loss for our family, too soon.  Our beautiful cousin.”  He invited me to step up to the podium and talk about this double loss.  
I got up and spoke about my sister for a bit.  How her death came just one week after my uncle’s.  I said that I hoped that November would get better soon.  I then talked about Al.  About how my Dad spoke about his generosity, only saying, “How much do you need?” when asked for a loan during trying times.  I talked about the summer I worked for him in his TV repair shop, working long hours, but feeling very accomplished the first time I diagnosed and repaired a customer’s TV at 13 year old.  I told the story about how he came to my apartment and banged on the door of all my neighbors looking for me when my mom thought I was missing, because she had switched two numbers when writing my new number down and got a message that my phone was disconnected.  I listed Al as my emergency contact after that.  Who wouldn’t want someone willing to bang on the doors of strangers to find out if they knew where you were as your emergency contact?

But at my sister’s viewing, I had blown it.  The situation hadn’t been right.  It was too austere.  I only had a jumble of images, feelings and recollections that wouldn’t come out in the right order.  And the next day, at the service, which my brother-in-law controlled, I probably wouldn’t have the opportunity to make up for it.  

I did not sleep well that night.  I kept imagining Virginia’s ghost coming back to haunt me for not speaking well of her.  

Virginia’s service was the next morning.  I was still feeling out of sorts.  I realized that morning that I had failed to pack my suit jacket for the trip.  It was a reminder that I was not ready for this.  We drove back to the funeral home, met up with our family, my uncle on my Dad’s side of the family and my two cousins, then took our seats down front.  

The service was like the viewing the day before.  Plain and traditional.  The preacher was from the church where Daniel and Virginia had been married, but he didn’t know either of them.  He repeated things that Daniel had told him about them.  Some of them were not accurate.  He read from the bible.  He expressed his certainty that my sister was in a better place.  

Then, about the time I thought the service was going to end, the preacher asked if anyone who knew her better wanted to stand and speak to the gathering.  I sat on my hands.  After fumbling yesterday, I didn’t want to ruin another moment.  People that knew her through Daniel’s work stood and said nice things, about how she was always positive and wanted to do for herself, even when she was in pain.  Her mother-in-law spoke as well.  

“Does anyone else have something to say about Virginia?”  A silence fell upon the gathering at the preacher’s question.  I knew that if no one stood to say more, the service would be over.  I knew that if someone stood, they would be the last person to speak.  I knew that I did not want only strangers, even if they were well meaning, to have the last word on my sister’s life.  

I raised my hand, just as the preacher was leaning toward the microphone to move the service to its conclusion.  He nodded at me.  I stood and faced everyone else.  I noted how people were sitting in groups.  My family just behind me.  Daniel’s family to my left.  A group of her friends from her work behind my family.  And her ex-husband, father to my niece and nephew, sitting with his new wife and a couple others way in the back.  I decided to tell them about her as best I could, using memories to illustrate who she was and not worry about how it came out.  
After I was done, the preacher ended the service.  They rolled out her coffin.  We filed out.  Friends and acquaintances of hers came up to me.  They expressed sorrow for my loss.  They liked what I had said about her.  My family told me I’d “done good.”  

That was a relief.  And I’m glad it went well.  But it’s not done.  We still need to comply with her final wish about scattering her ashes.  Like my uncle she left word that she wanted to be cremated too.  It’s not that I’m referring to.  

Since my sister’s death I’ve felt the need or strong desire to “do something.”  Just…  Something.  Like take up a cause.  Or travel to some far place and go on a pilgrimage.  Or clean up my apartment.  There are so many candidates, that each one sounds just as important and right to do.  

I thought writing this blog might help me figure it out.  It hasn’t.  Not entirely.  

In the novel Slapstick, Kurt Vonnegut talks about his sister and her death via cancer.  Two days before her death, her husband died in a train accident.  Vonnegut talked about how his sister did not ask, “Why me?” or curse God or Fate or the Universe.  She understood, as Vonnegut related, that the universe was a “very busy place,” and that sometimes bad things happened.  

Along with my desire to “do something,” I’ve been telling myself that my world has become a very busy place, and that I just have to go forward as best I can, doing my best to live for today, and realizing that there is a contradiction in that.  To go forward means to look to the future, carrying on toward whatever goals you have in life.  To live for the day means to look no farther than what is before you at this moment and make it the best you can, like my sister tried to do.  

I came across a Japanese saying recently that I really like.  明日の事を言えば鬼が笑う。Ashita no koto wo ieba oni ga warau.  If you speak of tomorrow demons laugh.  A nod toward how we don’t know what the future might bring.  

My impulse to “do something,” I think, is a desire to find out what I can do to make those demons weep.  Just as I did at my sister’s passing.  


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