Today we buried my grandmothers cremated remains, or cremains, as the funeral director calls them, on the family plot at a rural cemetery. Just my father, my mother and I squinting against the intense Indiana sunlight as the funeral director emptied what looked suspiciously like a pound of cocaine into a deep, square hole. Dust billowed spookily from the hole, like steam rising from the core of the earth. Ashes to ashes.
It was easy to come to terms with grandmas death, due to her prolonged weakness and the extreme pain and confusion of her last days. I in fact have had no significant emotional outpouring since May 9, when I watched her take a ragged, labored breath and just knew it was her last, but to see that plastic baggie filled with ashes, a body reduced to such an elemental form, was an unexpected, sobering reminder of what we are and where were going.
They said a prayer. I listened respectively. My mother, grandmas daughter, said things like, She would have wanted it this way, and, These are her favorite flowers, but the rituals we carry on after a person has died are for the comfort of the survivors, not the dead. I wandered around the graveyard, looking at headstones and constructing stories about them while my father asked his curious, odd questions about forensics and who exactly owns the farmland next to the cemetery, etc.
Near our plot, I noticed another cluster of graves that intrigued and depressed me. There were three shiny new headstones embellished by motorcycles and sports cars, obviously a shared family passion. They had died recently and in close proximity to each other: The father in 1986, and two sons: one in 1987 and the other in 1990. I felt so sorry for the wife and mother left behind. What unimagineable grief she must feel. There is a spot waiting for her next to her husband, her name already carved into the stone. Its just a matter of time. I used to think it was a little insensitive to prepare headstones for people who still are living, but its not, really. Death is THE reality of life.
The funeral director saw me looking and told me the story. The father and youngest son had died in separate car accidents, a year apart. The eldest son and his married lover died together having a tryst in a running car in her garage. Her enraged husband showed up at the funeral, screaming obscenities. Can you imagine what that would be like? To discover your wifes nude, dead body, with another man in your own garage? Prying her stiff limbs from his in an effort to spare her, and you, a bit of dignity?
My big Friday night plans include playing Scrabble with my mother. She is an absolute MONSTER at this game, and shes always teasing me about her superior skills, manipulating me into playing JUST ONE MORE game with her.
And Im gonna give myself a tattoo.
And Im gonna make an Imsorry-Ididnt meantohurtyou-lookhowmuchIloveyou mix tape for someone whose forgiveness I need but do not deserve.
It was easy to come to terms with grandmas death, due to her prolonged weakness and the extreme pain and confusion of her last days. I in fact have had no significant emotional outpouring since May 9, when I watched her take a ragged, labored breath and just knew it was her last, but to see that plastic baggie filled with ashes, a body reduced to such an elemental form, was an unexpected, sobering reminder of what we are and where were going.
They said a prayer. I listened respectively. My mother, grandmas daughter, said things like, She would have wanted it this way, and, These are her favorite flowers, but the rituals we carry on after a person has died are for the comfort of the survivors, not the dead. I wandered around the graveyard, looking at headstones and constructing stories about them while my father asked his curious, odd questions about forensics and who exactly owns the farmland next to the cemetery, etc.
Near our plot, I noticed another cluster of graves that intrigued and depressed me. There were three shiny new headstones embellished by motorcycles and sports cars, obviously a shared family passion. They had died recently and in close proximity to each other: The father in 1986, and two sons: one in 1987 and the other in 1990. I felt so sorry for the wife and mother left behind. What unimagineable grief she must feel. There is a spot waiting for her next to her husband, her name already carved into the stone. Its just a matter of time. I used to think it was a little insensitive to prepare headstones for people who still are living, but its not, really. Death is THE reality of life.
The funeral director saw me looking and told me the story. The father and youngest son had died in separate car accidents, a year apart. The eldest son and his married lover died together having a tryst in a running car in her garage. Her enraged husband showed up at the funeral, screaming obscenities. Can you imagine what that would be like? To discover your wifes nude, dead body, with another man in your own garage? Prying her stiff limbs from his in an effort to spare her, and you, a bit of dignity?
My big Friday night plans include playing Scrabble with my mother. She is an absolute MONSTER at this game, and shes always teasing me about her superior skills, manipulating me into playing JUST ONE MORE game with her.
And Im gonna give myself a tattoo.
And Im gonna make an Imsorry-Ididnt meantohurtyou-lookhowmuchIloveyou mix tape for someone whose forgiveness I need but do not deserve.
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
marla:
I'm reading, too. I scattered my beloved dog's cremains after she died while I was on a really crappy x-mas vacation. She was already cremated when I got back. She was a real sweetie. graveyards are very interesting places. I like to look for the fresh graves. Reading obituaries and looking for the young ones is a bit sobering as well.
gimmesatisfaction:
Marla...I know what you mean about looking for the young ones in obituaries. I do that whenever I read the paper, always end up poring over the obits, trying to imagine how a person died, checking out who they "left behind."