This past week brought bad news to two friends. One has a father fighting for his life, and one has a father who succumbed to COVID in a far-away land. When I hear this kind of news I try to think of something to say to my friend that would be meaningful yet unpretentious. At the same time I know what I say will not matter as long as it is from the heart. My sentiment might be remembered, but the words will be lost to the ravages of grief.
I’ve written often of my sister, Barbara’s death, probably because of the affect it had on me. My mind would not allow me to accept the fact that My sister, My family, mother of two small children, could die at the age of 42. It was unfathomable. A tragedy such as this did not happen in my family. Until it did.
Her death was my first experience of losing a close family member. She had been sick for a few months, but her illness had been sudden and the circumstances unreal. Whenever I am faced with offering condolences to a friend I am brought back to the night of her wake. There are some images that stand out amid the blur of the evening. To say the funeral home was crowded is an understatement. Barbara had many friends and coworkers who came out to pay their respects. Our extended family is large and at that time most of the aunts and uncles were still alive so just the family was enough to fill the funeral home to fire code. Then, all my siblings and I had friends and coworkers who came to support us. The place was packed. It was like being in a ballroom with couples waltzing all around me, bumping into me because I was interrupting the flow. Yes, a swirling, dizzying waltz and anything more than three feet from me was blurred, like bokeh. Occasionally a face would come into my circle of focus to speak to me or hug my neck. I remember two people in particular who put their arms around me and spoke the kindest words I ever heard. Words that gave me peace and lifted me from the sinking mire of grief. Their eyes held mine; their hands a gentle touch. What were those words? I have absolutely no idea. I don’t think I could have repeated them five minutes after they were said. What mattered at the moment, and even now, is that they were said, and they were genuine. This is what I pray for my friends who are going through this right now. I pray they are given the same sentiments that will outlast the grief.
Then there was the image of my brother, the one who followed her as a child and she watched over always. In those days he was fighting some private demons, and I wasn’t sure he would even come to the funeral home. I remember seeing him in the doorway, like a timid deer standing there taking note of the exits. I’m sure he was surrounded by other people, but in my mind there was a spotlight shining on his entrance into the ballroom and he was hoping not to be asked to dance.
Then there was one more thing I recall with clarity. With so many people gathered the din of conversation drowned out the piped-in, churchy elevator music the funeral home played on a loop. At some point the music got louder, or the crowd turned quiet. So quiet. In what felt like slow motion I turned to see why no one was saying a word, barely even breathing. Then I saw her. My tiny, barely seven-year-old niece, oblivious to eyes upon her, was leaning as far in the casket as she could muster, tending to her mother. Patting, petting, fixing, loving. Churchy elevator music played loudly on a loop and all eyes watched as she patted, petted, fixed, and loved. I don’t know who or what broke the spell, but it signaled the end of the evening. The mourners left the floor. The waltz was over. Fade to black.
