It was the night before my dad's funeral and our whole relation was having a reunion at our grandmother's. All these people were enjoying each other's company and I was locked in my bedroom crying myself to sleep. I didn't think I would hold out and, to be sure, I withdrew and was the party-pooper.
Then everyone was silent as my uncle announced something: "The funeral parlor is open tonight for the review; I will take the immediate family over now."
My grandmother couldn't find me, and when she did she coaxed: Bro, don't you want to come along? I'm sure they have him fixed up real nice."
I didn't answer with inhibition and they left me alone. I could not believe what my grandmother had said. I wanted to remember my dad the way he was alive; could I ever get the casket out of my mind? Deep inside this all seemed surreal; maybe if I saw him...
I would snap out of this: maybe I didn't believe it yet. Oh, well, I wasn't much for maudlin sentimentality anyways.
I was glad they had the decency to make this a closed-casket ceremony because it was no one's business what he looked like. I heard them come back, which woke me up, and tell everyone about it. Even my brothers had given in and wanted to tell me: "Bro, we took some good pictures in case you don't go."
They talked as if they had just seen him and it was making me curious to find out what he looked like. It had been almost three years. My brother Randy was glad he went and now was asking me to go: "Bro, it really brought back memories when I saw him. I could just hear him talking."
Somehow this seemed immoral too; I knew I would regret it: I recalled that it was said "dead bodies were like naked people." The house was like a "spiritualist" meeting the way they gossiped.
"Your dad is proud of you."
"I'm sure he doesn't have any more worries."
"He's so happy where he is he wouldn't want to come back, even if he could."
"You are so much like your dad I feel he is here with us."
I felt arrears and taken aback; was I remiss in paying my due respects? I was shocked why my grandmother reported: Bro, your dad looks so handsome--oh, I'm so proud of him!"
It was amazing how they could waste so much money giving a face-job to a head with a bullet laceration in the temple. His eyes had protruded upon impact; I wondered how they worked that. My grandma wanted to go see it again, this time taking her camera. I doubted if seeing a corpse we could make me feel good, but I obliged.
"We are going back, Bro, Why don't you come along? You will feel really good about it, too."
I had never talked with a funeral director before--this one talked about it like play-by-play: "I've buried your relatives a long way back, son." I thought it was no "biggie" but went along for the conversation. We got off on a tangent where I couldn't turn him off when I found out he had been in the same unit as me in the army.
"I'm so glad you came to see my work. I'm sure you will remember him like this. I have never waited for so long for the funeral. Hasn't it been six days now, since your dear father passed away?"
The room with the casket was a small chapelet that smelled clean; I was expecting formaldehyde. The quiet music and flowers were an attempt to manufacture a quasi-nirvana (valhalla for Scandihoovians like Dad).
"These carnations are from the firemen, these violets from his church, these magnolias from you boys, the white roses from Gram and me, and the lilies from the nephews and nieces."
I could not get over all the flowers. It was strange to introduce them like that--I didn't care who they were from. I didn't remember buying flowers but that's the way it must be for funerals; I knew it would come out of our pockets somehow. I thought how different it would be with me in charge.
"Do you like the casket? I picked it out and it cost only $400; I got a discount for you boys."
I nodded that it was fine; only I had the nerve to cremate. I was glad to see a flag on it--no one would see the casket.
"Yea, the VA donates a flag to all veterans and you will get it after the burial. The custom is to give it to the oldest son.
"They put him in his favorite suit. Do you recognize it?"
I didn't feel like talking so just nodded again. I was getting brave enough to look at it now. He always dressed like that: ready to go dancing. His hands were folded over his stomach and his eyes were fortunately closed. I could not tell where the bullet had made an impact. I noticed his watch and grotto ring still on; he always wore them, too. His hair was even clean and except for his perennial mustache and goatee he was clean-shaven; looking at how neatly trimmed he was I realized what an art this was. He had spent much of his life reclining like that on his bed ready for a date--just meditating or contemplating.
Then everyone was silent as my uncle announced something: "The funeral parlor is open tonight for the review; I will take the immediate family over now."
My grandmother couldn't find me, and when she did she coaxed: Bro, don't you want to come along? I'm sure they have him fixed up real nice."
I didn't answer with inhibition and they left me alone. I could not believe what my grandmother had said. I wanted to remember my dad the way he was alive; could I ever get the casket out of my mind? Deep inside this all seemed surreal; maybe if I saw him...
I would snap out of this: maybe I didn't believe it yet. Oh, well, I wasn't much for maudlin sentimentality anyways.
I was glad they had the decency to make this a closed-casket ceremony because it was no one's business what he looked like. I heard them come back, which woke me up, and tell everyone about it. Even my brothers had given in and wanted to tell me: "Bro, we took some good pictures in case you don't go."
They talked as if they had just seen him and it was making me curious to find out what he looked like. It had been almost three years. My brother Randy was glad he went and now was asking me to go: "Bro, it really brought back memories when I saw him. I could just hear him talking."
Somehow this seemed immoral too; I knew I would regret it: I recalled that it was said "dead bodies were like naked people." The house was like a "spiritualist" meeting the way they gossiped.
"Your dad is proud of you."
"I'm sure he doesn't have any more worries."
"He's so happy where he is he wouldn't want to come back, even if he could."
"You are so much like your dad I feel he is here with us."
I felt arrears and taken aback; was I remiss in paying my due respects? I was shocked why my grandmother reported: Bro, your dad looks so handsome--oh, I'm so proud of him!"
It was amazing how they could waste so much money giving a face-job to a head with a bullet laceration in the temple. His eyes had protruded upon impact; I wondered how they worked that. My grandma wanted to go see it again, this time taking her camera. I doubted if seeing a corpse we could make me feel good, but I obliged.
"We are going back, Bro, Why don't you come along? You will feel really good about it, too."
I had never talked with a funeral director before--this one talked about it like play-by-play: "I've buried your relatives a long way back, son." I thought it was no "biggie" but went along for the conversation. We got off on a tangent where I couldn't turn him off when I found out he had been in the same unit as me in the army.
"I'm so glad you came to see my work. I'm sure you will remember him like this. I have never waited for so long for the funeral. Hasn't it been six days now, since your dear father passed away?"
The room with the casket was a small chapelet that smelled clean; I was expecting formaldehyde. The quiet music and flowers were an attempt to manufacture a quasi-nirvana (valhalla for Scandihoovians like Dad).
"These carnations are from the firemen, these violets from his church, these magnolias from you boys, the white roses from Gram and me, and the lilies from the nephews and nieces."
I could not get over all the flowers. It was strange to introduce them like that--I didn't care who they were from. I didn't remember buying flowers but that's the way it must be for funerals; I knew it would come out of our pockets somehow. I thought how different it would be with me in charge.
"Do you like the casket? I picked it out and it cost only $400; I got a discount for you boys."
I nodded that it was fine; only I had the nerve to cremate. I was glad to see a flag on it--no one would see the casket.
"Yea, the VA donates a flag to all veterans and you will get it after the burial. The custom is to give it to the oldest son.
"They put him in his favorite suit. Do you recognize it?"
I didn't feel like talking so just nodded again. I was getting brave enough to look at it now. He always dressed like that: ready to go dancing. His hands were folded over his stomach and his eyes were fortunately closed. I could not tell where the bullet had made an impact. I noticed his watch and grotto ring still on; he always wore them, too. His hair was even clean and except for his perennial mustache and goatee he was clean-shaven; looking at how neatly trimmed he was I realized what an art this was. He had spent much of his life reclining like that on his bed ready for a date--just meditating or contemplating.
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