In the time I’ve spent on this earth, I’ve been to a grand total of two funerals. The first occurred as I was entering an emotionally unstable period of my life, otherwise known as high school. Looking back, I’m lead to believe that this funeral was the worse of the two due to the fact that, not only was it my first, but it was my grandfather’s funeral. This second and most recent funeral happened only last month. I’m not suggesting I was happy to attend a funeral or that I found joy in the death of another person, but I can honestly admit I was not saddened one bit through the entirety of the procession.
His name was Gary and I possessed only a sliver of recollection of him. Oddly enough I was actually related to him, though we had never met. He was the father of my aunt Trish; the lovely lady who had married into my dad’s side of the family by betrothing herself to my uncle Shane, thus explaining the lack of Christmas presents and Birthday cards from Gary because we weren’t considered immediate family. In fact, the week leading up to his passing was the first time I ever really had conversation of Gary within my own immediate family. Not only that, but two days after Gary passed, I got the funeral invitation and to my astonishment, I realized I wasn’t even aware of his physical appearance. However, not personally knowing Gary wasn’t about to hinder me from attending the funeral in attempt to support my aunt.
The thought of how awkward it would be to go to a funeral of someone I hardly knew, never occurred to me as I was getting ready for that day. Stepping out of my car, I saw my first offense. I failed to remember that funerals are set aside as a time of mourning and that the attire worn should be a reflection of such emotion. My pink and gold stripped dress screamed celebration rather than immense internal pain. I attempted to not let my embarrassment from the stares I caught, allow my cheeks to turn the same rosy color as my dress and carried on up the entrance stairs to try find my father in the waiting area.
Before I knew it, I had already committed my second fault. Rather than walking through the funeral home with dampened spirits like I envisioned myself doing, a charmingly handsome man working the funeral and greeting the guests as they walked in, had stolen my attention and thrown a flirtatious smile my way while handing me Gary’s memorial card and all I could do was take the card and mirror his expression. As I turned and made my way to the chair beside my dad in the waiting area, I could feel the guilt of my happiness washing over and eating me away like acid rain. I told myself that it was alright and that everyone makes mistakes. I convinced myself that anyone who saw my encounter with the greeter would forget their snide comments of disapproval the moment we were all called into the chapel for the service. It seemed I was right because once we were all situated in the pews I had a tally of only three eye rolls from the elder women.
My third and final transgression was, to my comfort, of my own mind. Sitting in the third pew of the family seating, I tried so hard to pay attention to the service. I simply could not stay focused on the words that were being said of this dear old man. My thoughts ran and varied from the accusation of the air conditioner sounding like a train running off the rails; to how ghostly Gary looked in his casket as if there wasn’t even a body there at all. As the service concluded, so did my thoughts; my final thought being “I do not belong here.”
With that, I remember the devilishly handsome usher motioning us all towards the casket to say our final goodbyes. I focused on trying to remain from embarrassing myself any further; though I did manage to trip on the shaggy green carpet and gracefully stumble into the back of one of the elderly ladies. The thought crossed my mind of how lucky I was Gary was not here to see all I had done at his funeral. In fact I think if Gary were here, he’d take pity on and invite me to a better place; one where I couldn’t make a mockery of myself.
