Chris’s funeral was Saturday morning. This was the saddest day. Wednesday we had been stunned by Chris’s death and the vision of his Spirit. Thursday and Friday had been filled with travel, preparation, meetings, and the sharing of stories. Saturday was the time for burial, a task so melancholy it left room for no feeling but grief.
It had rained for two days. Now the weather was just raw. Gusts of wind stirred up the fallen oak leaves scattered over the farmhouse lawn. Gray clouds filled the sky, swirling with the wind. From time to time they would break ranks and allow a patch of blue sky to shine through, but only for a moment. The hearse was waiting in front of the church, the dark-brown wood coffin resting on the sidewalk beside it, closed. Christina cried uncontrollably at its sight. Flanked by Jordan and Grandma, she walked slowly into the church. I had not yet seen Father Fitzsimmons or the Cymanows. I hoped they had arrived. The funeral director asked for the pallbearers.
I grabbed a brass handle at the rear corner of the coffin and lifted, in unison with Jeff, Jon, and Luke. Its weight came as a shock.
It’s unbelievably heavy, I thought. Oh my God, this is Christopher’s weight. This is my son’s body that I’m lifting.
A sharp stabbing pain pierced my right side, below the armpit. It hurt to breathe. I had pulled an intercostal muscle. I stiffened all the muscles on the right side of my chest as a splint for the one I had just torn, ignored the pain, and kept carrying the coffin up the walkway, up the front steps of the church, into the foyer. I was surprised to see a cluster of yellow balloons hovering by the doorway. They were a strange sight, tied by yellow ribbons to a sandbag, filling a space the size of a large holly bush, looking like a fantastical plant from the dream of a child. I had expected them to be delivered directly to the graveside. They seemed so incongruous in church.
We walked past them through the doorway and down the center aisle of the church. Beautiful music filled the air. Margaret Cymanow was chanting “Amazing Grace” with a purity that pierced my heart. For a moment, I forgot that we had requested the song, or that Margaret was the singer. It just seemed to have occurred. Tears gushed from my eyes like water from a spring. We laid the coffin at the foot of the pulpit and took our places standing in the pews.
I can remember very little of what followed. Fitz was there to say the Mass, sharing the pulpit with the parish priest. Despite his solemn countenance, flowing mustache, and bushy halo of curly white hair, Fitz’s face was childlike. He compared Christina’s grief to the sorrow of Mary. “A mother should never have to bury her son.”
My only memory of the remainder of the Mass is of Margaret singing the “Ave Maria,” her silver tones blowing on the coals of my grief, fanning them into a fire of such intensity that it seemed to consume all else.
One other memory. When the parish priest asked us to pray for Chris’s soul, I thought, How strange! I’ve seen his soul and I don’t think he needs much help from us.
At the conclusion of the Mass, we carried the coffin back down the center aisle, through the doorway, past the balloons, down the stairs, and out to the hearse. The balloon plant was placed in the hearse next to the coffin. This was comically difficult. The sandbag seemed to weigh about 50 pounds and each balloon wanted to pop out the back of the hearse. Their bobbing and wiggling reminded me of Chris. It took three men to complete the job.
A procession of cars followed the hearse down Main Street, across the river, behind Four Brothers Pizza, to the far end of the cemetery. A fresh grave had been dug. The coffin was laid alongside it, on the damp earth, and the sandbag holding the balloons was placed next to it. We gathered round the grave in a circle, about 50 people, and Fitz led us in prayer. For the first time, I recognized family and friends who had driven to Great Barrington for the funeral. They had been present in the church, but I had seen almost nothing there.
When prayers were finished, I spoke about the balloons. “We want to celebrate Christopher’s Spirit—his radiant smile, his sense of humor, his love of life. The balloons are a symbol of that Spirit. We will release them here, to celebrate the freedom his soul now enjoys.”
I knelt on the muddy ground to untie them from the sandbag and distribute them among our family, the children who were present, and some members of the community who had been closest to Chris. The knot was too tight to loosen. Someone handed me a pocketknife with a dull blade and I cut the yellow ribbons that held the balloons and handed them out one by one, the first one going to Jordan, the last one to me. They looked a bit funny. After being cut, each balloon’s ribbon was only 12 to 18 inches long, and the free ends were a bit ragged because the blade had been so dull. Not quite the effect I had intended. One of the balloons burst spontaneously. It was hard to know why, because the knife was nowhere near it.
“That one’s Christopher’s!” exclaimed Jordan.
We released the other 21 balloons all at once. They soared skyward, carried high by gusts of wind, and within a few minutes were all lost from sight.