I have a funeral to attend today.
Afterwards, with his shell and soul neatly nestled within the dust,
We’ll drive to a restaurant. We’ll eat. We’ll Drink…and toss out the obligatory words for the departed, as we, in our corporeal suits, check our watches and eye the clock.
We’ll go to our homes, and go about our business like nothing ever happened.
In ironic juxtaposition to the ever warming spring here in Ohio, the ritual seems cold…sterile…a great man inexplicably exiled to a plot of land that knows no home, while the mourners exalt him between glasses of beer and finger sandwiches.
It’s odd. It’s a bit depressing, however…
Friday evening at the funeral home, my son, my ex, and I were standing together talking.
I said, “This sucks.”, the ex sympathetically rubbed me on the back, and Ryno spoke:
“Mom, he was so funny Christmas Eve at Uncle Marty’s. He was sitting there cutting up and making everyone laugh. He was just like Dad.”
When Ryno said that, I cried, and at the same time I smiled, and that is what I will think about during the funeral.
And what I will think about every time I think about my brother who has passed.
The ritual of death and passing may be sterile and methodical however, the spirit and character of those who have gone before us remain, and I guess it makes sense that my brother is now boundless and without borders…
“Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
And death shall have no dominion.”