the funeral

In 9^th grade, a classmate’s mother died. I didn’t know her, and I had never met her mother. She was a grade above me, and because we went to a small religious school, anyone who wanted to go to the funeral mass could be excused and bused to the service.

She had had some kind of cancer, the details weren’t disclosed to the 9^th graders. Along with 25 or so of my classmates, I loaded the bus. All matching in our uniforms, we sat in a pack toward the back of the church. My classmate sat in the front with (presumably) her father and little brother, and for the rest of the year when I passed her in the hallway, she smiled at me. I transferred after that year, I don’t know if we ever spoke. But that’s what you do when someone dies. You go.

My college roommate’s dad was diagnosed with an aggressive form of brain cancer a year after we finished school. His time was way too short, and though he got to spend some amazing time with his family before he died, the loss of his light in the world was felt deeply by anyone who met him. He loved his kids and he loved me as a roommate of one of those kids. He had a radiant light to him and enough love to spread around to anyone who was lucky enough to be in his circle. I drove to South Dakota alone when he died, I didn’t think twice about whether or not I should go to the funeral. The Catholic church was packed to the brim. It was standing room only. My roommate and her sisters delivered one of the most beautiful, heart-breaking eulogies I’ve ever had the privilege to hear. I cried the whole drive home.

When my dad died, my siblings and I sat alongside our stepmother while she decided what kind of funeral there would be. No big ceremony. Just the chapel at the funeral home. No family pictures. Who should speak? His work colleague. I sat in the front row with Dave holding our 3 year old while I rocked a very sick 2 year old trying to keep him from coughing during the speech.

A beautiful, dark-haired woman who seemed around my age spoke about what an important mentor and leader my father had been to her. How special their relationship would always be to her. How much she had learned from him. I wondered what it would have been like to have that kind of relationship, to have known him like that. That night, Dave drove back to Minneapolis and I left the kids with my mom and got drunk with this woman in the hotel bar. In those two hours, I learned more about my dad than I ever had in his life.

Dave didn’t want a funeral. He told people before he killed himself and he put it in his suicide letter. “Hold no funeral, memorial or remembrance. Scatter my ashes in the Mississippi River.” I didn’t listen to him. 3 months before he hanged himself, 100 of our closest friends had seen us together and smiling at my birthday party. These people loved him, they were hurt and grieving and they wanted to come together and say goodbye. His sister came for me, insisting that I was going against his wishes. I explained as calmly as I could that I can do whatever the fuck I want, and this was memorial is for those of us left behind. He lost his say in what happens when he put the noose around his neck.

His funeral was a somber affair. We didn’t have enough chairs, it was standing room only. We are so lucky to have such an incredible and loving community. I spoke, along with 3 friends of his. A friend played one of his favorite cello pieces. His mother came. His sister did not.

He was not there. There was a photo next to the basket for cards, but his remains remained at the funeral home where they stayed until I laid him to rest next to his brother. He didn’t want a service so I didn’t invite him. This was for us, a chance to hold each other and say goodbye.

A few weeks after he died, one of our closest and oldest friends was killed unexpectedly in an accident. I was worried that I somehow missed the funeral because that summer is a complete blur. I was in shock for most of it and completely disassociated. But gladly no, the funeral was a year later, in the backyard of his beautiful home. There were stories and tears and wedding tents and incredible food, and dogs and children. His lovely wife gave everyone a chance to take home a piece of his work, as he was a lifelong artist, and there wasn’t a dry eye in the crowd by the end. It was a beautiful and moving, unforgettable celebration of his life.

Last week I got news the record store was closing, going out of business. I had been meaning to go in, I’d been saying for months I really wanted to. But something always came up and I put it off. I wasn’t ready. I didn’t want to. But with the news it suddenly became urgent, so a friend and I tried early last week. It was closed. Instead, we sat in the café next door and reminisced, and the owner of the store came through and stopped to talk with me and tell me about the last 6 years he’s owned it and his reasons for closing.

The store stayed closed all week, so the only option was to go to the going out of business sale. I wanted to go, was excited to, honestly. Friends escorted me and as we got within sight, my stomach started to churn. The desire to turn and run came over me.

“I don’t feel good.” We continued anyway.

The place was packed, with a long line that snaked through the shop, people grabbing everything that wasn’t nailed down. Carrying shelves and stereos through the door as we entered.

It was way too hot, too many people plus the air conditioning seemed to be off. It was sweltering, and disturbingly silent, There was no music playing through the speakers. That made sense, I guess, since we had just watched someone carry a the speakers through the front door.

We found space and were able to catch our breaths and look around. I stood in the middle of what used to be the classical section and the first thing that caught my eye was the paint on the ceiling. I remember when he painted that, the fire marshal had come in unexpectedly and the sheetrock on the ceiling was unfinished and unpainted, he’d given us a week to get it done. We’d had a massive fight, the memory of the fight remains, but not what it was about. He’d left in anger after we’d argued and decided to stay up all night, painting the ceiling.

He’d done a terrible job, and run out of paint midway through so the edges were blue and the middle was a weird, muddy brown. Something he’d mixed a bunch of other colors together to achieve so he could finish without waiting for morning to go to the hardware store.

It was hideous, but I knew better than to say so. Either way, at least it was done. Once it passed the fire marshal’s re-inspection, he stapled posters to the ceiling and we never thought about it again. My favorite was a giant REM Chronic Town gargoyle. I wonder where it went.

I stood on the stage. I wandered through what was left of jazz. I stood where the listening station used to be, my favorite spot in the store. We took selfies by the sign, and paused in the atrium on our way out to say goodbye for the last time.