The church parking lot was full half an hour before the service, with license plates from five states. Vendors had dropped off tents and chairs the day before for the reception which was in the yard where he had lived for the last ten years. Hours after the service there were cars lined up along the block, while friends gathered to talk about him, look at pictures, remember his childhood, cry about the pain that singed the edges of his story. People took off work and pumped gas to be part of the throng honoring the life of their brother, cousin, neighbor. Those feelings and memories had a place to be heard.

 

Later that day I heard about the death of a long time marriage. No one told me directly. I heard third hand, in a hushed voice. Then the person who told me closed the door, and I was alone with my grief. There was no one to hug, no service to wrap around my mourning, no gray organ music to soften the blow. I would have willingly jumped in the car, to drive to a hall where others were looking at pictures of this couple and their beautiful children. I ached to listen to the patchwork of memories, see the glistening faces of their brothers and parents and neighbors each holding a paper plate of chips and cherry tomatoes, and savor the sweet times before they are eclipsed by litigation. My tears were shed alone.

 

The man up the street is still dead. But the days of talking and celebrating absorbed the shock of his loss.  

 

Photo by Kat Gatti

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