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Gift from Hil Part 2 - 2014-12-30
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10:07 p.m. - 2009-11-05
The Funeral. How do you write honestly about a funeral? I mean, what do you talk about? Inanities? Profundities? The visual dissonance of orange flowers on a pink casket? Do you describe what everybody wore? Who said what and to whom? List the hymns? (Methodists, so sing-y.) Can you say Gram looked good, especially for someone who was 94 and dead for over two weeks? Do you talk about your tights which seemed to have no waistband and kept falling down? And that in the middle of all the sadness you got the insane giggles thinking about how one ill-timed gust of wind and you'd be mooning all the mourners? Can you speak of Cousin Annie's eulogy and how her love for Gram practically blew the hair off everyone's brows with its power? Tissues being passed hand to hand down the pews? Of small white churches with soaring tall clear glass windows full of sunlight and the view of bare limbed trees gone to sleep for the winter? A luncheon in a cozy timbered ceiling inn with a huge stone fireplace and a leering moose head hung over the mantle? How the buffet reminded me of that old Catskill resort joke: "The food was awful! And such small portions too!" That you could actually see people's minds reassessing Mick after being introduced to this unexpected new woman of his? Today hurt. Today was awful, hilarious, crowded, lonely, surprising, boring, typical, outr�. But mostly today was necessary. The next part. The part without Gram, really and truly without her started today. That says it all, I suppose.
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