When our bodies feel more like puppets than like home
Yesterday was my first time attending a military funeral. The gravity of the moment continues to affect me, and I'm still processing my own feelings.
cw: discussion on death, grief, loss, hard memories Involved parties are filtered off, so as not to disturb or upset them. Yea, I know some of this is terribly self-absorbed. Spare me the judgement, yeh? Thanks. . . .
When my friend shared the details of her father's services, I thought only of being there for her. I didn't know her father well, but she and I have known each other since we were still gawky little girls. She is family, and I would be nowhere else.
Hearing Taps sliced to some culturally cultivated core of my soul, and the brimming flood came unbidden, tears falling somehow for every service member who has ever breathed their last. I wept for all the families who miss them, for every person whose life they were summoned to end or alter in an act of war, and for all the service members and their families who found ways to carry on when the battle ended. I cried for all the sons and daughters inspired by their honored parents, aunts, uncles, grandparents, who bid quiet and loving farewell to their aged lifelong heros at bedside. I cried for my my own father's dwindling candle, and for gratitude that he's still here with me.
As the service continued, and my friend and her family honored their father's memory, I was struck by the gravity of their sorrow. How remarkable was this man in his many and varied accomplishments and passions, and how much more remarkable that his family weeps so dearly, moreover, that they feel comfortable doing so openly, supporting each other in their grief.
In my friend's family, I saw folks grasping at a sudden emptiness, hard feelings and difficult memories smoothed over by the gentle glow of postmortem reflection. I have felt this smoothing glow spreading through difficult memories from my childhood as well.
In my friend, oh lordy, in my friend I saw parts of myself. Poised, composed, and crystalline, she comported herself with grace and dignity, as I tried my best to do at my grandmother's funeral. My thoughts amplified by the fact I was sitting in the very chapel that held my grandmother's services, I remembered the cloudy haze that fogged my vision that day. I recalled how my grandmother had always wanted me to be a proper young lady, how important to her were etiquette and proper social protocol, and how I foundered wishing she were there to guide me through these especially visible moments. My grandmother was in the box. She couldn't help me anymore.
I remember the rush of defiance and crushing humiliation. My grandmother wasn't there to judge me anymore, but now all the family and my grandmother's friends and colleagues had gathered to pass judgement in her absence... and worse, I knew my grandmother would have raged and wept at how negative judgements passed on me reflected poorly on her. I tugged awkwardly at my hair scarf, picked lint from my clothes, tried like hell to find the place where my voice sounded appropriately somber and yet dutifully welcoming and hospitable. I remember I spoke, but I don't remember what I said. I remember my voice faltered at the podium and my eyes stung, and my brain was screaming at me inside my skull, voicing an opposed war that threatened to crowd out my more coherent thoughts, "How dare you not show proper respect! Pull yourself together! But don't look too stony-faced or everyone will think you don't care! You're such a disgrace!"
I wrenched my memory out of the building storm, and looked up at my beautiful friend as she spoke carefully of her father's life and accomplishments, directly addressing his fallible humanity, the nature of forgiveness, and the importance of the overall arc of one's life. I heard between her words some of the same conflict I felt. Sometimes hard memories and old conflict are not quite smoothed by the merciful glow of someone's passing. I admired her grace and gentility, and appreciated the semi-vacant nature of her gaze. Oh, those moments when our bodies feel more like puppets than like home.
How fitting that moments before the service began, I'd stepped outside to visit my grandmother's resting place. I squinted against the sun glare reflected off her brass name plate, startled by the tears in my eyes and the words on my lips: I think you'd finally be proud of me, Lala.
At the tea reception following services for my friend's father, her eyes cleared. Her smile returned, genuine and warm. She reached for me in a hug, and we whispered and wept how proud we were of each other. Oh, what joy in communion of spirit and sorrow, and how far we've come as women.
I think I'm finally processing my grandmother's death, some nine and a half years after the fact. I pray my friend finds sure footing on her way through the wilds of grief ahead of her.
