I struggled with what to write this year, as we had to work on our anthology pieces separately and in different countries. Though apart, writing this and reading Leslie’s piece made me feel more connected to her than ever.
My experiences with funerals have been sterile and generic, most in fake houses built specifically for honoring the dead with family and prayers from a local pastor that we did not know. We played a Leonard Cohen song for my grandfather, and graveside, a local National Guard officer whom we had never met presented a veteran’s flag to my mother. I don’t particularly remember any emotion, sad or reflective or joyful—I was more concerned with helping my parents and making sure we hadn’t forgotten flower arrangements or a check for the funeral director.
I once sat shiva for a best friend’s grandmother. Grandma Sara used to invite us over for dinner, where she made salads and roasted salmon, or we would meet her at Lord & Taylor to give her an opinion on sensible yet stylish semiorthopedic sneakers. Her funeral wasn’t at a funeral home but rather a fancy funeral parlor on the Upper West Side. Afterward we went to the family’s house and I ate too many bagels from the Second Avenue Deli.
And as I write this you’re at the vigil for your great-grandmother, your family’s matriarch, in Mexico. You and I have only emailed twice in weeks and you prefaced the note with “This email will be poorly punctuated because many English punctuations do not exist on this keyboard.” You said Mexico was not what you expected but that the burial had given many peace. I realize I know nothing of your culture’s traditions around death except for my visions of grand altars and a few key facts from a children’s movie about Día de los Muertos. I feel naïve, I feel sadness, and I feel my own culture (or lack thereof) that I have taken for granted.
I wonder if you left a hot chocolate, like the ones you bring to share in our pair sessions, at her altar. I wonder what colors the flowers are in the town your family is from. I think about my parents not talking about death, and if we did, the moment was fleeting. You have nine days to help your great-grandmother cross over and to celebrate and reflect on her life. I wonder if this has helped you—helped your family—more than a sterile service and hearse processional through town helped mine. But the one thing I don’t have to wonder about is how much you will teach me about your time away, about your culture, about your food and celebrations, and about your family as soon as you’re back in Brooklyn.