funeral
Reed Stone: I knew him as the owner of the office complex that the organization I work for leases from. When he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer a year and a half ago, I saw him less and less around the office. Yet when he did come by to "inspect the grounds", he always stopped to say hi, sometimes even sitting down in a chair across from me and asking how things were going. I will miss our conversations. He was a kind-hearted man. The cancer claimed his life on Sunday November 14th. He lived about three times longer than doctors had expected him to.
I wasn't able to slip away from the lunch meeting as soon as I had hoped, which almost made me late for the funeral. I drove to the meeting with a coworker, Glenda, and had planned on us driving back to the office where I would either drive to the funeral by myself or with Burchelle, but by the time we were able to leave the meeting - when all the speakers had finished and a white elephant gift exchange was about to begin - there was only twenty minutes until the funeral. We had just enough time to get to the church so Glenda dropped me off and told me to call her if I needed a ride back.
I got out of the car and approached the church. The casket - an American flag draped stately across it - was being carried into the church. I stood awkwardly, waiting to get inside the church, keeping out of the way. A few more people came and clustered near me, a few steps away from the door. Finally a man told us that we could go around and enter from the side, which we did.
I looked for Burchelle but I didn't see her. Burchelle is the office manager. She has been instrumental in keeping the office complex running ever since Reed was diagnosed with cancer. The two of them were very good friends, trusting each other and helping each other out. Burchelle was devastated by the loss. Not only will she miss Reed greatly, it reminds her of when her husband passed away just two years ago. Also, she doesn't know what things will be like now that Reed's children have inherited the property. I went to the funeral mostly in support of her.
The Episcopal church was large and stately. I found a place to sit on one of the long wooden pews, then sat stiffly, alone and unaccustomed to the pomp of gold crosses, floor to ceiling organs, ministers and alter boys robed in white and all the many ceremonies and traditions. The congregation rose and sat as directed, praying, reciting verses, singing and making the sign of the cross. The minister spoke, then a grandson, son, and close friend of the deceased. They spoke lovingly and even with some humor about Reed. The friend who spoke was dressed in full military attire. He and Reed first became friends 60 years ago when they began army training.
The minister - or is it priest? - invited everyone to take communion. Instead, I decided to slip outside and call Glenda to come pick me up. It had been an hour and I didn't want her waiting on me, plus I was sure I wouldn't be able to get a ride with Burchelle, guessing that if she was there she would want to go to the graveside and the reception afterwards. Part of me would have liked to stay, but I needed to get back to work.
I called Glenda, who told me to stay inside for another fifteen minutes or so before waiting for her near the sidewalk. I didn't want to go back inside, so I walked around the church instead. It was beautiful; dignified stonework, a quiet garden area to one side of the sanctuary, and steeples pointing majestically towards the sky. A part of me longed silently for my church to have such an elegant building, while another part of me is still glad that the building my church meets in defies the usual conventions.
I sat down on a stone railing near the sidewalk. About five minutes later, I was quite cold. Especially my legs, clad in black tights under a dress that fell to my knees. I hugged my jacket tightly around me, watchful both of the street for Glenda's car and at the time, which crawled by in the cold. After about fifteen or twenty minutes I turned to see the casket being carried back outside towards the waiting hurse. I looked back to the street, trying to be inconspicuous. When I glanced back toward the crowd emerging from the church, I saw Burchelle. I can see the next minute as though I were an onlooker filming it in slow motion. I stand up to go talk to Burchelle. She is coming down the sidewalk with a pace that shows an underscore of agitation. I take a few steps toward her and she sees me. She puts her hands up; a mixture of self-defense and defeat. Then her arms reach towards me and I embrace her. She is sobbing, and she doesn't let go. We hold each tightly, and her crying makes me cry. Eventually she pulls away and wipes her eyes.
"I don't know why I'm taking this so hard," the late-forties, grandmother, widow and office manager says.
"He was your friend. And I'm sure that this reminds you of your husband passing away," I answer quietly, a hand on her arm.
She nods. "Yes. He was my buddy." She sighs. I explain how I had to enter from the side and didn't see her, or else I would have sat with her.
"I wish you could have! You could have driven with me too," she says. I explain that I would have and why I couldn't . She nods again, still wiping at tears. Her son - recently a father but not grown up yet in many ways - stands behind us, shuffling his feet.
"Thank you for coming," she says, and I hug her again, glad that just those couple of minutes of being there with her after the funeral meant something. Then she and her son go to their car to join the funeral procession going to the grave site. A few minutes later I see Glenda drive up. I get in the car and go back to work.
Some days ...
I wasn't able to slip away from the lunch meeting as soon as I had hoped, which almost made me late for the funeral. I drove to the meeting with a coworker, Glenda, and had planned on us driving back to the office where I would either drive to the funeral by myself or with Burchelle, but by the time we were able to leave the meeting - when all the speakers had finished and a white elephant gift exchange was about to begin - there was only twenty minutes until the funeral. We had just enough time to get to the church so Glenda dropped me off and told me to call her if I needed a ride back.
I got out of the car and approached the church. The casket - an American flag draped stately across it - was being carried into the church. I stood awkwardly, waiting to get inside the church, keeping out of the way. A few more people came and clustered near me, a few steps away from the door. Finally a man told us that we could go around and enter from the side, which we did.
I looked for Burchelle but I didn't see her. Burchelle is the office manager. She has been instrumental in keeping the office complex running ever since Reed was diagnosed with cancer. The two of them were very good friends, trusting each other and helping each other out. Burchelle was devastated by the loss. Not only will she miss Reed greatly, it reminds her of when her husband passed away just two years ago. Also, she doesn't know what things will be like now that Reed's children have inherited the property. I went to the funeral mostly in support of her.
The Episcopal church was large and stately. I found a place to sit on one of the long wooden pews, then sat stiffly, alone and unaccustomed to the pomp of gold crosses, floor to ceiling organs, ministers and alter boys robed in white and all the many ceremonies and traditions. The congregation rose and sat as directed, praying, reciting verses, singing and making the sign of the cross. The minister spoke, then a grandson, son, and close friend of the deceased. They spoke lovingly and even with some humor about Reed. The friend who spoke was dressed in full military attire. He and Reed first became friends 60 years ago when they began army training.
The minister - or is it priest? - invited everyone to take communion. Instead, I decided to slip outside and call Glenda to come pick me up. It had been an hour and I didn't want her waiting on me, plus I was sure I wouldn't be able to get a ride with Burchelle, guessing that if she was there she would want to go to the graveside and the reception afterwards. Part of me would have liked to stay, but I needed to get back to work.
I called Glenda, who told me to stay inside for another fifteen minutes or so before waiting for her near the sidewalk. I didn't want to go back inside, so I walked around the church instead. It was beautiful; dignified stonework, a quiet garden area to one side of the sanctuary, and steeples pointing majestically towards the sky. A part of me longed silently for my church to have such an elegant building, while another part of me is still glad that the building my church meets in defies the usual conventions.
I sat down on a stone railing near the sidewalk. About five minutes later, I was quite cold. Especially my legs, clad in black tights under a dress that fell to my knees. I hugged my jacket tightly around me, watchful both of the street for Glenda's car and at the time, which crawled by in the cold. After about fifteen or twenty minutes I turned to see the casket being carried back outside towards the waiting hurse. I looked back to the street, trying to be inconspicuous. When I glanced back toward the crowd emerging from the church, I saw Burchelle. I can see the next minute as though I were an onlooker filming it in slow motion. I stand up to go talk to Burchelle. She is coming down the sidewalk with a pace that shows an underscore of agitation. I take a few steps toward her and she sees me. She puts her hands up; a mixture of self-defense and defeat. Then her arms reach towards me and I embrace her. She is sobbing, and she doesn't let go. We hold each tightly, and her crying makes me cry. Eventually she pulls away and wipes her eyes.
"I don't know why I'm taking this so hard," the late-forties, grandmother, widow and office manager says.
"He was your friend. And I'm sure that this reminds you of your husband passing away," I answer quietly, a hand on her arm.
She nods. "Yes. He was my buddy." She sighs. I explain how I had to enter from the side and didn't see her, or else I would have sat with her.
"I wish you could have! You could have driven with me too," she says. I explain that I would have and why I couldn't . She nods again, still wiping at tears. Her son - recently a father but not grown up yet in many ways - stands behind us, shuffling his feet.
"Thank you for coming," she says, and I hug her again, glad that just those couple of minutes of being there with her after the funeral meant something. Then she and her son go to their car to join the funeral procession going to the grave site. A few minutes later I see Glenda drive up. I get in the car and go back to work.
Some days ...
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