Mourning in the Morning
Today I went to a funeral.
It was my first funeral. Mom said I didn’t need to wear black, but I’m glad I did. The other popular choice seemed to be dark purple. Later I saw a man in a bright yellow shirt with a dark suit over it, and one in an orange Hawaiian shirt, sans jacket. They looked like they had been rushed off the golf course— maybe they heard the news late. Or maybe they had the right idea.
“Smart move,” I said as we pulled into the parking lot, “having a Jewish cemetery in Los Angeles. Lots of business, I’m sure.”
It was a morbid thing to say. I assumed anything said at a funeral would be colored morbid, but as it turned out kitsch is a better word to describe the day. The ceiling of the temple was cottage-cheesed, the expected stereotypes in attendance and a rabbi reciting the same psalm for how many gatherings a week (assumed). The casket was just like the ones you see in the movies, and a little video camera allowed for better viewing on two flat television screens on either side of the stage.
I didn’t personally know the man for whom we gathered, but his story was inspiring as I heard it: a puzzle of a life, pieces of memories fit together by love. I think I could easily get addicted to listening to people’s stories in this way. I like how loved ones can sum up a life; true belief in the goodness of a human’s heart spread on thick like I later in the day spread scallion cream cheese on an egg bagel. I find companionship in the vulnerability of the teller. I find comfort in hearing a roomful of mourners laughing in delighted remembrance.
Anyone interested in the human life should seriously consider becoming a funeral crasher.
On the walk to the grave, high heeled shoes poked endless holes above the heads of the dead, and luckily sunglasses go well with a black (or eggplant) outfit. The ground is tossed around, and then we must leave for the next group— secretly eagerly awaiting the deli catering and a big glass of wine.
