Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Stardust

I'm wearing a black dress, this time. It's a black dress of the "little" categorization, if that matters at all, and I'm wearing it because it's just too damn hot to stand at a graveside wearing the dark green suit I wore to the last funeral I went to, back in January (hell, it was almost too hot then).

I'm driving to the funeral and I'm thinking that this is it- the time has come to test my new(ish) resolve that, as an adult, I no longer "do" viewings. I will go to the funeral, I will sit through the service, I will watch them lower a casket into the ground (or whatever) but never again will I look at an empty shell if I don't feel like it. I'm done with it, and since I'm well into my majority no one can make me.

It's possible that I'm approaching this occasion a bit on the defensive.

I get just the teeniest bit lost on the way, so rather than arriving early, as I'd planned, I'm what might be considered late, and thus am forced to slip unobtrusively into a pew at the back while some singing is going on. Which means I'm sitting alone through a funeral I didn't really even want to come to all, and only came to as a means of providing emotional support for a friend. Who is sitting at the front. Fantastic.

People start eulogizing, and I have to admit- it's better than the last one. Mostly, I think, because the pastor doing the speaking actually knew the deceased. Still, I take time to reflect on the fact that one of the reasons I'm so damned uncomfortable at funerals is the constant references to Jesus. Don't get me wrong- Jesus was a great guy and just so happens to be the personal savior of my husband, but it's not something I believe in and, every once in a while, I'm overwhelmed by the fact that other people not only believe, they believe so strongly it can provide comfort to them in the midst of their grief. I wonder what it would be like to have a community of believers like that...

Sometimes I feel like a cold, analytical alien at these things. I always have to remind myself (rather fiercely, I might add) to be polite and respectful. And to at least put on a grave (no pun intended) face, even if I can't manage to get all the way to sad.

In the end it turns out it's not a funeral at all- just a memorial service. And the deceased was cremated, so I don't even have to make excuses for not going in to look at her corpse. And the friend I'm there to support sees me as things are breaking up, and I give her a hug that lasts a long time while she sobs into my shoulder.

I'm glad I came, if for no other reason than this moment.

Now I'm leaving, making my way across the now deserted parking lot to my little green car, and I'm wondering to myself what people will do at my... going away party. I'm not particularly religious, and I know that as far as a large portion of the population is concerned, I'm going to hell. Which I'm pretty sure rules out the comforting Jesus talk. But I'm hoping people will elect to swap hilarious and/or embarrassing stories, instead- perhaps utilizing the social lubrication of copious amounts of whiskey. Or wine, or beer- I'm certainly not going to dictate what alcohol people choose to toss back at my rip-roaring wake. In fact, I'll go so far as to say I'll allow water. Or even Shirley Temples. Behold my deathly magnanimity. I'll be sure to pause on my way to the Next Adventure to nod approvingly at whatever beverage you choose.

This post is getting ridiculous. Time to call it a night, I think.