If funerals are hard,
then mourning is even harder. Mourning is especially hard when your emotions
are a mixture of laughter and tears. I mean, even surrounded by funeral music
and family members dabbing at their eyes with tissues, I could feel a big
bubble of laughter wanting to escape. Now, would that not have shocked them?
But then, that is how my mother would have wanted it, would she not? I mean, all those years she talked about how
funerals were unnecessary expenses and how she did not want all those flowers
when she was dead if no one sent them when she was alive. My mother had
kept a mental file full of funny funeral stories. There was the time she and my
aunt went to pay their respects to a co-worker who had passed. Back in those
days, the bodies were laid out in homes. They were looking for a white house
with a “slow funeral” sign. They found two, side by side. Not sure where to go, they tossed a
coin and went in to greet the bereaved. Of course, it was the wrong house but
they played it cool. They shook hands with people they did not know, said the
appropriate words, and then when they exited
the house, looked at each other, and one
of them remarked, “He looked the best I have ever seen him look!.” Now that was my grandmother.
Sitting in the church
with the low key lighting and the soft music playing, I wondered, “Why do they
not play ‘Mustang Sally?’” Her name was Sally, and she really would have
appreciated the light-hearted gesture. Or would she?
When a person dies,
when they are suspended between two worlds looking down, do they suddenly
acquire a taste for the solemn? When they look at their own body lying there,
or in this case, their ashes in a jar, do they suddenly wish they had said, “Yes,
send flowers! Yes, cry and cry loudly! Yes, let everyone there know without a
doubt that I am missed!” I wondered these things. And I wondered also how she
would have felt if she were sitting in my place and I in hers.
The music stopped and
the minister spoke. He did so with respect mingled with humor. It was very
appropriate. This man really had known my mother, and he somehow seemed to
know that with death even those who avoided the lime light in life, want to be
acknowledged as having been semi-great in some sense of the word, once they
have passed to the other side. He expounded on her greatness, while at the same
time shedding light on her all too human traits. My mother loved to talk.
The minister made the comment that he was surprised that God had not already
sent her back because she was wearing out His ears. There was laughter, but
there was also a great tenderness as he told about how her physical limitations
no longer applied. She was now free of pain, no longer bed ridden. She had her
voice back after years of living with a trachea tube in her throat, unable to
speak.
He talked about how she
made people laugh. He talked about how she came from a family of hard working,
hard headed people. As he spoke, I realized that I fit into both categories.
Looking around at my siblings, my children and their siblings, I smiled even as
I wiped a tear away. As he continued to speak, a picture began to form in my
mind. I saw her spirit hovering in the room, floating around and peering into
each face in the congregation. At certain ones, she would have paused and
wondered what in the world they were doing here. She probably did not even like
some of them, but yet was pleased that they put in an appearance. I could
imagine her critical eye on some of the clothing. She would have been wondering
why so-and-so was wearing a tie, since she had never before seen him out of
overalls. More than likely, she was thinking that my sister needed to go back
home and take off some of her make up. Beyond those thoughts my mind rose
higher to what awaited her upon her ascension to her new home. I knew God had better
not offer her a mansion because she would be quick to put Him in his place and
tell Him she was not about to get above her “raising.” I smiled again, and then
I cried.
At the end of the
service, we filed out into the courtyard. My niece had filled balloons with
helium, and she offered one to each family member. The minister spoke once
again and invited anyone else to speak who had a memory to share. There were
some who shared stories, while others like me were silent, choosing to keep our
thoughts to ourselves. It was a touching finale to a fitting tribute to her
life.
When it is all said and
done, you can say that life is a vapor, or you can say that life is a river.
Both of these things are true. You can also say that the end of life is the
cloud where the vapors gather, or the ocean where the rivers return. Or you can
say the end of life is like getting a brand new Mustang. As the balloons were
released and I watched them rise, I squinted against the bright afternoon sun.
Smiling while streaming tears inwardly, all I could think of was, “Ride, Sally,
ride.”
Works Cited: "Mustang
Sally" is an R&B/straight-forward
blues song written and first
recorded by Sir Mack Rice
in 1965.[1]
It gained greater popularity when it was covered
by Wilson Pickett on
a single the following year. Pickett's version was also included on his 1967
album The Wicked Pickett.[2]
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