It seems to me that our culture is so... odd in so many of its traditions, and today my thoughts swirl around the passing of a soul. Around the dying, we talk in hushed tones, and choke back our tears and shy away from saying we'll miss them, or that they are embarking on a magnificent journey that we all are at least a little afraid to take but will someday as well. As if our denial will create delay, or change the inevitable, or make anyone feel better. And each of us with our own slant on the approach, we try to make it all be okay, for ourselves, for someone else... Well. We do what we are capable of, right?
I try not to cry at the funerals of the ones I love the most. And if you know me, you know what a ridiculous oxymoron this is. I cry when I pray. When I'm happy. When I'm laughing. Weep at others' sadness. The world's hurts. My own sins. When life just gets too big. All of these times, tears melt my resolve, my sorrows, my worries, my stressors. But when I say goodbye, I try so very hard not to cry. Maybe it's because I am afraid I couldn't stop. Or, maybe I think someone else needs to use the tears more. Or maybe I think, somewhere deep in my heart that if I just don't let the hurt out, it will just somehow cease.
I hate to see my dad cry. He has this wonderful face that is so kind and strong at the same time. But when his full smile crumples and his chin crinkles up, and his brown, brown eyes fill with tears, my heart just breaks. I've never seen the effects of myself making him cry. And I'm sure I have, but I'm glad I haven't seen it. But I've seen him cry over his dad, his mom, my sister's cancer, and, now, his brother's death. The last days at hospice were heartwrenching, I'm told. I was spared this scene, stayed here in this part of my world, waiting those last days for the goodbye call.
We have the cancer call go around alot in my family. Just got another one last week. My dad's other brother. It's that call where things in the moments before it were at least one semblance of normal, and then the moment after it's that freefall of the different same. Anyways, the goodbye call is worse. It has a singular aloneness at its disconnect, and I hate that.
But this week, the goodbye also brought a measure of guilty relief. It was over--it being the struggling, aching, hurting, dying, wondering waiting, leaving. And the tradition of baked spaghetti and cold ham and paper plate luncheon began with all of its nodding and hugging and... yep, crying.
And you know what? I am so glad. For the first time in a long time, I allowed my heart to feel it--the sincere well wishes and Irememberyou and the embrace of yesterday's memories. And not only was it okay... It was good. You should know that in my mind I see this Grinch's cartoon heart getting bigger and bigger until the weight of it tips the sleigh and takes the presents to all the Who's in Who-ville. And the likenesses, I won't even go into in this post. You know Who you are.
Instead, I'll finish with what I had to say at my uncle's funeral...
Who in this room was surprised that my uncle's heart remained beating, strong up until the very, very end? Who was really surprised at the determination behind his fight? Who really marvelled that a sanctuary could be filled and then some with people whose lives he and his magnificent family had touched?
Far, far back into the stretches of memory, I see my uncle Mark, strong, lean, handsome, tall. I feel his fingers in my hands as the soles of my little four year old feet match themselves up on top of his so he could walk me around my granny's kitchen. Feel the weightlessness of being a wiggling sack of potatoes, bounced around in the big backyard. I see him always entering the picture right on time, whether dropping in for a visit from the Air Force or congratulating me with a Lucy Peanut trophy after an accordian contest--just never missing the important things. Remember my curiousity about him being smitten over that beautiful, tall blonde girl with the tan, tan skin who I would have to share him with, but who would bring about these little blonde dolls that I would snuggle and cart around and tuck into bed on all those nights of babysitting. And at least a million more moments of memory.
It occured to me recently that I had been given the happy blessing of being a middle child all of my life. That, true, I was oldest sister to just one sister, and boss of many younger cousins. But I had older siblings as well, in the form of these larger than life aunts and uncles. Especially Uncle Mark. Fierce protector of all things he loved. Loving more people more fiercely than he would ever let one. Sharp tongued and quick tempered, but never really wanting to cause pain, and never, never a hypocrite. QUick to apologize, quicker to share a tear when life's burdens made someone else hurt. What a role model, this uncle brother.
I think the hardest thing about a funeral, other than the sorrow of Missing, is the reconciliation of a life that's been written all over the page, with the finality of the pen having been laid down, its singular hopes, dreams, passions now silent. But the beauty, in its grieving, aching, empty, quiet way lies in the next pages waiting for new life--because the impressions of those pages before were written with such surety and conviction that love has imprinted itself over and over again, invisible to the eye, but felt in the heart.
So. One part of the Runion story--what a privelege to be here in its moments--finishes today, a legacy, a prestigious club of loyalty, love, nitty gritty living as a family.
(and then I finished with "Milk", the piece you may have read from my last post, reposted here)
Say to me, "Family" and I think:
Noise. Arguing at the dinner table on Sunday after church. Pass the milk.
Rumpled Sunday comics because someone got there before you. Pushing each other past the breaking point, by anyone else's standards, and then:
Coming right back to Pass the milk.
Holidays and gift wrap and painted wooden ornaments
and birthday cake in a bowl drenched in,
you guessed it: Milk.
Static crackle baseball games on the screened in porch,
wondering just what is the appeal of that foamy drink that
sticks to their mustache
and smells so awful
except when it's mixed with shrimp and Old Bay.
Go cart races and swinging in the apple tree
Touching the tender, dreams are real, sunshine-studded childhood
so alive in my heart, unbreakable
Pass the milk.
Too many cooks in the kitchen,
chiefs in the wigwam,
bosses with big opinions who might try to micromanage but only
for your own good
Bloodlines that go deep with genetic tendencies like
ignitable passion
and touchy blood sugar if dinner is late
and I will be there for you always even if it's just to
pass the milk.
Family.
What a legacy these
mistakes and apologies
jokes and sad sentences
hugs and shoves
encouragement and bitter honesty
memory and reality
Bending annoyance into love
making the only thing that really lasts
a sure promise of you cannot you will not ever disappoint me
And always, always I will cherish you
even when you have to leave
and I'll be here ready when you need me to
pass the milk