We are traveling north again. Barely settling our feet in our home hours before we return to bury.
The unexpected news of death came in the driveway as we were leaving, heading home to our beds and our couch and our messy yard. I remember how the few bits of gravel sounded as the wheels turned out and onto the road south.
Funerals have a way of startling awake ordinary time, pulling us from the lull of days. Each minute becomes stark in color, in comparison to the day and the moment before.
I remember the color of buildings rising like gray guards over the Indianapolis skyline. The cones marking detour glowed orange and reminded me of plastic toys still strewn in my house miles away.
The sky over St. Louis was void of color – so blue it appeared white.
I think of my husband who is traveling to bury a stranger. He is coming because he is my husband, for nothing more. I wonder at this distance.
One grieves for all losses when one attends a funeral, I think, as all curl into narrow car seats, covered with blankets. I watch the land flatten and trees become scarce to make room for planting and growing.
I have heard stories of the discovery of a never held or petted fish named Henry, who was floating after the school bus roared away. The day spiraled into tears. It’s as if at this time, when the brevity of life is seen at close range, permission is granted to open the box of all the little things that caused pain and sadness and to feel them and call them by name.
I have days like this, I think. Days that grief comes and spreads like a spilled drink on the table. I make pictures of liquid moving slowly across as I would clouds. Here is Africa, here are wings opening and here roots moving into sprout.
On these days a simple task like mopping up feels heavy. The weight of juice the color of sunshine morphs into thick oil smelling of citrus and unbearably humid summer days.
I wonder if he thinks that burying a stranger is an obligation or an odd gift. To walk into a room, known only by the few in this car, and witness others who are raw. See how they move from one pod of people to another seeking comfort in story and maybe side hug. Watch how they sit in rows, some slumping bent over by weight unseen, some stretching long legs out under chairs in front of them because the bend numbs too much.
Does he think, as I do, of all the things mourned? Words said that caused pain? Unsaid words that drip blood from bitten tongue? Does he wonder if their pain is just this right here in casket? Or if perhaps they are thinking of that one time when they did that one thing? Or worse – didn’t do that one thing so needed? Or is it just me who does this?
I’ll never ask because truly we all have that one thing and sore tongues and a fish named Henry.
Yes, Cindy, we all do have that one thing and sore tongues and a fish named Henry… May your grief be lessened. May you find the sweet comfort you give others… even us strangers.
Ah Lettie, thank you. I hope you are well also.
Beautiful piece, Cindy. I once hugged a grieving grandmother and ended up being comforted by her because I mourned being human and stuck on earth with its sorrow and pain. It’s hard to be here sometimes. I know you know exactly what I mean. I pray you’ll feel His comfort in unexpected ways. Love you.
Big love back to you. So. Big. And thank you.
If you felt comforted, just imagine how this friend felt. I love that image of beauty and grace. Truly.
A stunning piece, Cindy. Having had four famioly deaths in the span of 11 months I share you emotions and can sit in the seat next to you and wordlessly nod in agreement.
Your thoughts about your husband and ‘burying strangers’ is very sensitive. He’s a good man for walking that journey with you.
Hey – I’ve carried you & lifted you as high as my arms will reach since I read this fast during lunch. It’s a wild journey, I think, not the physical death but what that opens up. Thank you for your kindness. Rightly, the words came from something bigger than me so I’m sending them up. I’m sending you good vibes.