the poetry of that moment

My grandmother's funeral was really quite lovely. A number of people spoke and told personal, quirky stories that helped us all remember who she was in her prime. My uncle Stan gave a life history and mentioned that my grandmother was named Grace because the day she was born (in Waller, TX, I believe, the same town where the funeral was held) a terrible drought broke. And as her funeral was beginning, the rain began to drizzle down. As they lowered her coffin into the thick, red clay it came in torrents. There was something comforting about the bits of roots reaching out toward that wooden box, just waiting to reclaim it. Maybe some folks would find that creepy. I don't know. It is so rare for us to come close to death in a society that is so strongly in denial of it--we'd all like to stay young forever (and yet we've also got this peculiar fascination with killing, dying, murder--CSI and all that). Someone said as we were about to leave that "in some places they'll throw a bit of soil on top of the coffin--that's the tradition." And yet we seemed not to know what our own tradition was. And so the soil was thrown and one calla lily left lingering there. Our rituals are borrowed and we're a bit unsure of them. Don't know what could be done to remedy that.

Nevertheless, I do think we mourned grandma in a way that was respectful and appropriate, if a bit home-made. Field Store Cemetery, where she is buried, is almost entirely full of people related to us in one way or another. A strange feeling it gives you. It is a little honky-tonk, with some of the gravestones bearing silk flowers in Dairy Queen cups, but it is over-towered by ancient trees, and some of the stones are really quite dignified.

It was a surprising treat to see our relatives and spend this spontaneous time with them. It was like one last gift from grandma. Thank you!