I don't remember when I was so eager to attend a memorial service. For the past year such celebrations of people I care about were private events, because of the pandemic. While it is a blessing to be able to watch on livestream, something is missing. 

 

My aunt died. She was the last of my mother's siblings, and when she slipped out the door it meant that the ones left in charge are my generation. The ones who are still grownups in training. 

 

The preludes included pieces that had been played for her wedding, and those of her children. All those glorious events had taken place in this same church, as well as her baptism almost a century ago. She loved flowers and did the arrangements for a hundred weddings with as many brides. Her graciousness extended to me, by hosting both our engagement party and our wedding reception.

 

I watched each person who entered the cathedral, knowing that they were likely a relative. It became a game to identify them, with half of their faces covered, and the colorful hair I remembered muted to gray. Yet I was surprised that attributes as subtle as a gait, or the impulse to jump up and greet someone who just entered were enough to know who they were. All of us became spokes in the wheel whose hub was our beloved aunt/grandmother/mother/teacher/friend. 

 

There was one woman who fooled me. I gave up, assuming she had been a student rather than one of my cousins. But afterwards on the lawn I asked someone who she was and instantly ran across to hug her. 

 

As it happened the service was over the dinner hour, but my hunger was satisfied by other means. I had visited my own parent's rose quartz gravestone before the service, and thanked them for a life well lived. 

 

It was a comfort to picture Mom running across the grass to greet her sister.