Gravesite
I find myself back at the funeral home today. The flowers in the corner are plastic and the drywall is beginning to crack ever so slightly at the ceiling joint. The table where we meet, a very nice table, is cluttered with binders of options and details about my father-in-laws life.
I am advising my wife and her sister and mother on the signing of the documents that will officially close the final chapter of life by this man she called dad.
What a surreal job—to sit with people every day all day who are just upside down with grief over their loss. The only comfort they can offer is to make the last rite of their loved one as flowery and shiny as possible.
With my sister-in-law, it was a 40 minute visit, in and out. Today is shaping up to be north of two hours. Caskets, embalming, digging and filling holes.... It all takes a lot of time when you aren't just cremating someone. And a lot of money. This non-elaborate burial will be just north of $10,000—almost exactly what the burial insurance policy my mother-in-law purchased will cover. It is entertaining watching her be slightly rabid with the funeral director over a minor policy point. No dollar spent unnecessarily if she can help it.
Finally, flowers chosen, casket decided and plot approved, we wrap necessary business with my wife's family and I think of my own.
I went to see my grandparents grave. I haven't visited since I delivered her graveside eulogy nine years ago. Before that, I had only visited in 2011 when I did the same for my grandfather. I don't recall a lot about either occasion, except getting choked up talking bout my grandmother's favorite song... something about a roller-skate and a key and at my grandfather's, I recall his coffin being draped in an American flag. Or maybe it was just folded on top. As a veteran of 3 wars, the military side of the family insisted on it and my grandmother was never a hardliner on those kinds of things. I had forgotten where their graves were located, but the cemetery guy knew just where to point his boney finger after consulting his ledger.
It's just a place in an empty field of dry, brittle grass and stubby mesquite trees. Easy to overlook and no different than almost any other field in the part of the country, so I suppose it's the raw emotion at the recent losses in my life that welled up in me when I saw my grandparents headstone. I had forgotten that the marker they chose is rose marble with their names, date of birth, date of marriage and my grandfathers date of death. According to the headstone, my grandmother is still out there raising heck.
When asked, my mother explains that it's a financial argument. My grandparents prepaid their entire burial, including the bronze roses my cousins collected and the aforementioned joint headstone, sans Feb 8, 2016.
When my family called the headstone maker, the company loopholed the obligation to come and have the date of death carved into the appropriate spot. The carver wants $800, but my family insists they fulfill their contract. I guess this is a Scots-Irish standoff? One thing for certain—my grandparents don't care.
I smile when reminded their anniversary was on Valentines day. That famously romantic date that really doesn't mean anything special to people really in love. But for Helen and Alfred, it always did mean something special. My own anniversary is in early January and I think how their celebrations, like ours, were likely always when it's cold. How wise it seems in the dark of January, that some dear to me chose July to start their lives together. While we seek warmth, they seek the cold. If only we could trade temperatures just for a day.
I suppose, in the end, it makes no difference. On a long enough timeline, all of our anniversaries are in the cold. At least today they are. My grandparents are joined in death as they were in life. My father-in-law lies in wait. Will his teenage bride join him there? Or will this world change drastically for the better before she can.
May all of your anniversaries be filled with love and laughter. And may you never have to taste the sting of death.
#essay #death #100DaysToOffload #Writing
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