I decided and with that decision, I missed the flight. I missed a philosophical conversation with my two hour flight companion. I missed arriving in the airport and shuffling my feet through the terminal thinking, Is this really happening? What am I going to miss in school? Jesus, why am I here for this? I missed the long overdue family reunion, where everyone put the arguments behind them, if only to recognize death. I missed the dinner table conversations, my self-medicated relatives, and the retold stories of days long gone. I missed the tears, my speechless grandfather, and the numbness of a silent room. I missed my brother throwing a shot of jack into the ocean. I missed the black dresses, the savory food, the exploration of my aunt's apartment. But more, much more than that, I missed my cousin. My young, beautiful, witty, darkly sarcastic and bluntly outspoken Katie. I missed my cousin's funeral.
Now:
I sit on the edge of the wooden, honey color chair. I turn on the computer and I google search "The Funeral". Google returns lyrics to a song I've never heard. I add the word "Customs" to "The Funeral" and refine my search. I can't think of anyone to ask, so I am asking Google. Google doesn't mind if I'm dwelling on a decision that I already made. So I simply type in: "Should I have gone to my cousin's funeral?" Then it hits me. Dammit. I'm google-searching whether or not I should have attended my cousin's funeral. There is a rusty element to this realization that tastes something like regret. If I'm still thinking about whether I should have gone, I may have my answer.
A dictionary excerpt:
clo·sure
noun /ˈklōZHər/
closures, plural
closures, plural
- An act or process of closing something, esp. an institution, thoroughfare, or frontier, or of being closed
- - road closures
- - hospitals that face closure
- A thing that closes or seals something, such as a cap or zipper
- A resolution or conclusion to a work or process
- - he brings modernistic closure to his narrative
We saw each other in gap-time. She would come north for a visit every summer when we were kids. Then she would go home and there would be that huge annual gap of time before I saw her again. As we got older, and our relatives crazier, she came less.
The gap time would be indefinite now. Or... perhaps we are simply distant family now, living lives and forgetting to keep in touch. But believing that, convincing myself of that, is not simple. The truth is that she is gone. But still my mind still stands divided. "She's gone," says part of me, meanwhile the other protests, "No, dummy, you just haven't seen her in a long time." The term 'closure' has crossed my mind. But I think that, even if I had attended the funeral, there would still be that prevalent part of me begging to believe that she is just on extended vacation.
That internal battle does not alter my vibrant memories of her and our summers together. When I was growing up, she was my idol. She was spunky and fearless. She was beautiful. It is strange to grow up, to watch your idol slim and slip. Youth is coated in a simplicity that wears away with age. I always admired her, but as my naivety shrank, so did the pedestal where I placed her.
I am qualified to give you my unadulterated opinion and google search results, but I do not promise valid philosophical or psychological advice. I am not writing a book on how to grieve, I have not devised an effective excuse for avoiding funerals, and I am uncertain about much of this living and dying hoopla.
Perhaps I should have googled when I had to decide whether I was getting on a plane to Florida. Whether I was attending my cousin's funeral. If I knew then what I know now:
Burial customs are as old as human civilization. Regardless of race, culture, or era, customs exist to honor the dead and say goodbye. People have been attending funerals for centuries, millenniums even. I am one girl who has come to the realization that you should go to the funeral. If nothing else, go to celebrate the life that once was with the people who still are.
And so, Katie, I hold this cyber funeral for you. Know that I loved you and that I write this ridiculous blog in your honor. Know that in my heart, I was there to say goodbye, and so long as my memory does not deceive me (with Alzheimer's or some crap like that) I will always remember you.
We all grieve differently. Do not be afraid to say goodbye in whatever way, whatever time is right for you.
