In the valley of the shadow of death
A friend's dad passed away yesterday morning.
Zelda, Lovett, Dora, and I went to the funeral home tonight for visitation. Visitation is something I'll never get used to. I never know what to say. It seems sacrilegious to stand within earshot of a casket, catching up with people I haven't seen since the last visitation, but that's what we do. We stand around, offer condolences, extend pleasantries to fellow visitors, and then slip into the night, thankful that we aren't the hosts of this bizarre ritual but mindful that tomorrow night we very well could be.
My friend and her mother epitomized strength in adversity, though they have been preparing for the inevitable for some months now. I remember when Zelda's mother died. She was sick for almost a year and we knew it was grave and still when the call came it was as if it were a surprise. It was a trying experience, her visitation. Zelda and I didn't grow up together, so practically everyone there was a stranger to me. Most of them said things to Zelda like, "Why didn't y'all call and tell me your mother was sick?" as if we all had spare time and the presence of mind to do such a thing. Then, about a week after the funeral, Zelda's dad began to receive envelopes in the mail containing homemade obituaries that people had cut out of the newspaper and covered with contact paper. It amazed me that more than one person did this, as if Zelda's dad needed a souvenir bookmark to commemorate the occasion or something. I'm sure the people meant well, but at the time it was more than a little creepy.
I guess I'm so uncomfortable with death because I'm so sheltered from it. There aren't homicide bombers on every corner of my neighborhood. Murders happen across town and are no closer than my TV screen. I don't kill any of my own food. I don't go near hospitals unless absolutely necessary. So, death and I aren't on speaking terms.
I cannot begin to comprehend 10,000 of my neighbors dying at once. I can barely cope with one at a time.
Zelda, Lovett, Dora, and I went to the funeral home tonight for visitation. Visitation is something I'll never get used to. I never know what to say. It seems sacrilegious to stand within earshot of a casket, catching up with people I haven't seen since the last visitation, but that's what we do. We stand around, offer condolences, extend pleasantries to fellow visitors, and then slip into the night, thankful that we aren't the hosts of this bizarre ritual but mindful that tomorrow night we very well could be.
My friend and her mother epitomized strength in adversity, though they have been preparing for the inevitable for some months now. I remember when Zelda's mother died. She was sick for almost a year and we knew it was grave and still when the call came it was as if it were a surprise. It was a trying experience, her visitation. Zelda and I didn't grow up together, so practically everyone there was a stranger to me. Most of them said things to Zelda like, "Why didn't y'all call and tell me your mother was sick?" as if we all had spare time and the presence of mind to do such a thing. Then, about a week after the funeral, Zelda's dad began to receive envelopes in the mail containing homemade obituaries that people had cut out of the newspaper and covered with contact paper. It amazed me that more than one person did this, as if Zelda's dad needed a souvenir bookmark to commemorate the occasion or something. I'm sure the people meant well, but at the time it was more than a little creepy.
I guess I'm so uncomfortable with death because I'm so sheltered from it. There aren't homicide bombers on every corner of my neighborhood. Murders happen across town and are no closer than my TV screen. I don't kill any of my own food. I don't go near hospitals unless absolutely necessary. So, death and I aren't on speaking terms.
I cannot begin to comprehend 10,000 of my neighbors dying at once. I can barely cope with one at a time.
posted by Chris @ 11:20 PM
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