Four generations at my Baptism Grandma K, Kim, Karina, Grandma Joyce 1991, St. Paul Evangelical Lutheran Church |
Something is terribly wrong. You hear your mom crying on the
phone in the study. Your dad is in there as well, but neither you nor your
brother and sister can make out through the closed glass door whether he is
crying as well. You start to feel sick. Someone has died.
These aren’t the kind of tears your mom sheds sometimes when
saying goodbye to relatives at the airport. You’re brought back to a late night
years ago just before the flight back to Phoenix. As you all had waved to your
grandparents before disappearing through the security checkpoint, Mom had begun
to cry. She made no sound as they rolled down her cheeks; she simply picked up
her purse where the x-ray had spit it back out. It had felt like a beautiful
scene in a movie: the loving goodbye, marked by a daughter’s tears who would
wait another six months before seeing her parents again. You remember how you
saw her tears return upon takeoff in the dark cabin. While she stared out over
snow-covered Minneapolis, you started to silently cry, too.
But these weren’t those kinds of tears. It wasn’t a moving
scene in that sense. In fact, your mom looked like a mess. Someone has died;
you know it. You didn’t think it could happen again so soon. Grandpa Murl, your
dad’s dad, had just passed away the year before. How could you bear losing
someone else?
You sit on the leather couch, tense, and wait for the news.
Your parents have finally left the study and gather you and your siblings in
the living room. You look at your dad. He might have cried, but you’re not
sure. Either way, he’s able to keep himself composed while it takes your mom a
while to speak through her tears.
“Grandma K passed away.”
The sickening feeling in your stomach gets worse. You were
right. You didn’t want to be, but you were. You’ve just lost someone else in
your family and you’re halfway across the country from her. Your cheeks flush,
your neck and chest burn, and you’re sure your ears are the same flushed shade
of red. You were too busy with your racing thoughts to notice the tears running
down your cheeks until you feel their coolness down your neck.
Your sister is sitting next to you. She’s already mildly
sobbing. On the other side of her, your little brother is also crying. It seems
so much worse to watch them cry as they try to wipe away their tears with their
glasses on. After what seems like forever, everyone reaches a melancholic level
of calm. Your parents return to the study to start booking a flight back to
Minnesota for the funeral.
You withdraw to the sanctuary of your room and close the
door, shutting out the rest of your grieving family. After you splash cool
water on your face, neck, and ears, you grab a wad of Kleenexes from the box
above the toilet. Then you slide the door closed to the bathroom you share with
your sister, cutting her off as well. You don’t mean to be rude, but you’re
already emotionally exhausted. Seeing others grieve only deepens your own and
you can’t bear it. You’d rather be alone in your room.
The funeral date is set. Your flight is scheduled. Before
you begin to pack, you reluctantly unpack your duffel bag that was all ready
for your trip to San Luis Obispo, California. You and two of your best friends
were going to celebrate your summer birthdays over the weekend. While there’s
no question that you want to be there for your grandma, you’re so disappointed
over the trip and how unfair life can be, that you start to cry all over again.
You pick up your phone to let your friends know. It’s times like these when you
thank God for texting, because you’d never be able to get through a phone call
right now.
Even while on the usual drive into town, everything feels
surreal. It’s like a bad dream you still haven’t woken up from. You can’t
decide if it’s better that you know what will happen at the funeral. The
service, the wake, the tears, and the endless sympathetic looks from everyone
in town who knows your family, which is everyone.
Back in the car, your chest starts to constrict as you hold back the tears that
are threatening to fall. Not here, not now. You haven’t even seen any of your
extended family, let alone arrived within the town limits.
Grandma K’s funeral isn’t held at St. Paul’s. At first you
find that off-putting. Does an unfamiliar funeral home help alleviate the
grief? Your family doesn’t enter the church through its nostalgic scented coatroom
to the sound of the church bells. Instead you walk up a few steps into a house
you’ve never seen in your life. But as you walk around, led by the kind staff,
you wonder how a funeral home could feel so instantly cozy and warm. Though it
is used for a much different purpose now, the house retains its original plan.
The service and wake are held in a large room to the left, perhaps once a large
formal living room. Back out and down the wallpapered hallway is the kitchen
where refreshments and food await. People quietly chat and reminisce in yet
another room off the hallway. Later in the afternoon, when you almost forgot
where you were, you take a moment to silently approve the house’s success in
feeling almost like your family’s home.
For you, the worst part of the day is when you go up to the
casket to pay your respects. Seeing Grandma K in the casket will make
everything finally feel real. As you wait behind your parents in line, you
become anxious. You’re scared the mortician couldn’t capture Grandma K’s spunk
in her still frame; you want to keep that last memory of her lively. As you
finally step up to the casket and peer over the side, you begin to silently
cry. Part of you wishes Grandma K would turn the corner and wobble in through
the crowd, leaving you and the rest of the mourners staring at an uncanny wax
figurine. But she is lovely lying there as though she was sleeping. Her white
blond curls look like she just stepped out of her beauty parlor. A smile escapes
as you think she’ll no longer need that plastic kerchief to protect them from
the rain.
The next few days after the funeral aren’t so bad, though a
melancholic haze seems to surround your family. When you laugh with your
cousins, you all pause awkwardly because it doesn’t feel right to be having
fun. Your family is constantly gathered together. Sometimes tears well up in
someone’s eyes but they’re overcome through sharing stories about Grandma K
over hearty dishes and desserts. No sooner than the table prayer ends, three
adults simultaneously announce Grandma K’s version of “Bon Appetit”: “Dig in!” Later,
someone drops a utensil and immediately others shout, “Company is coming!” just
as she always did. Though Grandma K isn’t physically present, her words echo
throughout your gatherings, bringing both tears and deep laughter.
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