Essays — March 3, 2014 11:08 — 1 Comment

Going to the End – P. M. Merlot

I’m on the right street, but the wrong funeral home. If I were thinking clearly, I would turn my car around and head in the opposite direction. Instead, I drive to the second funeral home I know in my father’s hometown. Like the first parking lot, it’s as stark looking as this winter day. I have forty-five minutes left before I miss it all. Part of me wants to. I hate funerals. At the end I am exhausted. I go when I have to. Losing nearly all morning clarity, which is never optimum, I call my parents. I know that will result in some chastises, but they are my only hope. All the rest are there by now. I am expected to be there. Ahead, I glimpse at black figures, busy ants heading into their nest, and I know I’ve found it.

By this time, the small parking lot is nearly filled. The roads and sidewalks are slick with slush, ice, and snow and my boots are not the kind of boots made for a safe walk. Eying one open space that remains in the lot, I pull in. A black figure steps up, stops, and greets me. “Staying for the cemetery?” A, yes, I know will get me that space. Yet, I don’t know if I can do this until the end. I give a convincing affirmative and the last spot is mine.

I never really knew Aunt Margaret. She was my father’s Aunt. My great-aunt. Your parents’ relatives are always different than yours. A generation divides the two and feelings of closeness are divided as well. I believe my unfamiliarity with Aunt Margaret may be of some benefit for going to the end. But, I still have doubts. Good reasons to still have doubts. The funeral Mass gets me. Once, I cried throughout an entire funeral Mass for someone I never knew. For those I do know and love, it is difficult to restrain myself from wailing. Full blown emotion and I am wrecked for days afterwards. But, I should stay for my second cousin. At least I know him. We don’t share the childhood memories as first cousins do, but we do share a feeling of being related. I decide to stay for the rest of the viewing. I still don’t know about going until the end.

I make the Sign of the Cross, rise from kneeling, and leave Aunt Margaret to give my condolences to her sons. I reintroduce myself to two of them. They don’t know me like I don’t know their mother. My cousin, who I do know, embraces me and I know I should stay. Maybe, after all, I’ll get to know Aunt Margaret. Whenever I did see her, her demeanor frightened me. She was a tiny bit of a woman, with a gruff voice, and nearly black eyes. Her dyed black hair, coupled with her eyes, and deadpan expression gave her a harsh look. There wasn’t a softness about her that one expects from an aunt. She was a Sicilian woman, who worked like a man, on her husband’s farm. Whatever softness she held was worked out of her.

I sit at the viewing with my two aunts. They always go to the end no matter what. Other cousins are there. Some always go to the end and some always leave after a viewing. “Are you going to the funeral Mass?” asks one aunt. “I don’t know. I am not good at them.” So far, I’ve been unemotional. I’ve listened to the eulogies at the viewing. There is a common thread in all of them. “She worked hard. She made us pick blackberries, strawberries, and made us work hard.” Family first, faith in God, and work hard – that was her legacy. I know by now that Aunt Margaret would not have accepted any excuse from me not to go to the end. I slide my winter coat on and with dread head for my car. Car engine idling, I search for someone to follow to the next level.

I pull behind my first cousin and tailgate him. I don’t want a repeat of the morning believing he will know a more direct route to the church. After a couple of turns, I realize he’s going home. He’s done. Now, I think I’ve missed the funeral procession and decide to drive the way I know. The traffic light is red and as it turns green, I spot the funeral caravan turn onto the road I am on.  Easily, I join them. I am relieved. A police escort stops traffic along the way and the next black figure takes command in the church parking lot. I wind up parked just behind the family’s funeral limo. First the hearse, second the limo, third me. I don’t deserve this rank. I don’t know Aunt Margaret. I am just getting to know her. Someone else should be in third place. Someone who knew and loved her.

At church, I seat myself next to my cousins who do go to the end. All rise upon the entrance hymn, “How I Loved You.” Remaining dry-eyed, I convince myself that I can get through the mass without showing outward emotion. I am eager to know more about Aunt Margaret.  My cousin slips her hand into her purse and pulls out a tissue. She does so discreetly not to let on to anyone else that she’s a crier. Like her, I’ve used this tactic before. We are halfway through preparing for Communion. “I Am the Bread of Life” is being sung. Usually, this is where I break down. But, I’m still strong.

We are past the Priest’s Eulogy. I can tell he didn’t know Aunt Margaret either. My cousin reaches for a second tissue when a melodic voice sings the “Ave Maria.”  I reach for mine. It’s my first. The Ave Maria gets me every time. When I hear it at regular Mass, I battle back tears. It’s always a funeral song. I try to desensitize myself at regular mass, and I can get through it without visible tears. Though, by then, I am red-eyed and embarrassed when I leave.

At the end of the funeral mass, the cousin I know steps up to the dais for “words of remembrance.”  I’ve come to know Aunt Margaret better. She was one to both instill and quell your fears. She was like my other aunts after all. I would have loved her had I known her.

Like her, he is strong. His voice does not crack. There is acceptance of her death in his tone. There is acceptance that can be felt among all. I sense the graveside service will be the same. I think I may go to the end.

The same black figure motions us to our cars for the procession to the cemetery. I contemplate a swift departure from the line up. I allow other cars to line up ahead of me in the procession. I still don’t deserve third place, even though I know Aunt Margaret better. Flashing red lights appear and another police escort leads us to the end. It’s too late for me to leave. We are driving along roads unfamiliar and I am without my GPS. Surely, I could become lost long enough to miss the gathering after the cemetery.

I am familiar with the Oak Grove Cemetery. My father has taken me there many times. Those trees, over a hundred years old, were planted by Sicilian immigrants. Time and death have enabled their canopies to grow so massive that the ground underneath remains sunless. Perhaps, an eternal protection for the famers, who like Aunt Margaret, picked blackberries and strawberries too many decades under the scouring sun. Narrow, winding roads create a maze like appearance with only one way out. All the other roads lead into one another making one go in circles throughout the cemetery. I do not know if this was their intention or due to a lack of planning. Perhaps, it is a sublime message about “la dolce vita” for all who pass through.

The oak trees seem omnipotent to the winter that has made them barren. There is slush, water, ice, and snow that must be traversed in boots not made for it. Freezing rain begins as we surround her casket. It wouldn’t be like Aunt Margaret to die in the spring.  For us to spend our last moments with her in balmy wind would be too easy. Just as everyone stands before her casket, a powerful cold wind gusts and sweeps us. I feel as if that’s her last breath. She’s reminding us once again that in this life we must endure. We must go to the end. I don’t need to follow anyone to find my way out of the Oak Grove Cemetery. I know the way.

Bio:

P. M. Merlot lives in a small town in the Pine Barrens of New Jersey. She writes creative non-fiction. Patricia is of Sicilian descent and recently traveled to Sicily. Since then, words have flowed like the lava at Mt. Etna. She holds an MS in Computer Science and is an Adjunct Professor for Arcadia University. She is a street photographer and many of her photographs have been published in literary magazines under her real name.

One Comment

  1. RT says:

    I enjoyed this piece.

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