Grandpa’s Funeral

All things come to an end. That's a hard lesson to learn, but we must all learn in our own time.

We all remember our first funeral. The first I ever attended was my grandfather’s. I did not attend my Aunt Hazel’s (I was 9; I must have been, because Keith was nine when him mother died, and Keith and I are the same age), or my Uncle Ron’s (I was 12). My parents thought I was too young to attend those, too young to process the death, maybe. I believe we think differently now; children need to experience life’s passing, and the rituals we hold to help us mark the transition. I remember them passing, though, and why, and the sense of loss. I believe should have gone; children shouldn’t be shielded for death.

My grandfather’s funeral was special. Why? Because it was the first, and last time I was a pallbearer. The eldest male grandchild from each of the 6 branches of the family were chosen for the task, and although I was still fairly young (15), and many in my family thought too young, and maybe too short, or not physically strong enough, for the task, my father insisted that I was to be one.

Sadness prevailed. But the ritual was a comfort--it oght to be; it was a mass, much like every one I'd attended each and every weekend for as long as I could remember, even if the readings were different, and there were eulogies given as well as the expected sermon. The funeral Mass complete, we escorted the casket to the back of the church, sliding that beloved soul into the back of the hearse, and then to the cemetery grounds, we pallbearers following behind in a cousins station wagon. Cigarettes were passed around. I declined. Windows were cracked open, allowing the smoke to escape, and the chill air access. None followed. The graveside service has already been held at the back of the church. There would be no internment that day as the ground was still frozen.

We pulled into the cemetery grounds. I spilled out with my cousins, following, unsure what was expected, if anything. The casket was retrieved, and as one, we hoisted my grandfather on to a shelf atop the other caskets in storage, to be buried later. I’ve never forgotten that, lifting him up onto a rack where he would wait out what remained of the winter until the spring. It felt wrong, incomplete. I bit back tears. I resolved not to cry. I was a man now, after all. Maybe the others did as well. If they did, they did a better job at hiding it.

Winter passed. Spring sprung. We returned for a further gravesite service later in the summer.

That felt better. For me, anyway. Not for my cousin Carol, who wept openly upon passing her mother's headstone. She wept. Was comforted. Composed herself, only to cry again.

Closure is important.