outsdr | Day 4 part 3

And the writing on the wall talked about a distant future that's already here to stay.
-Marian Gold

I don't remember much of the drive to the farm, just that I was glad to have some alone time. I got to my father's house, dug out some folding chairs that he had ask me to take to the burial site, and loaded them in the back of his truck. I had taken two roses from the flower arrangement on the top of my mother's casket, and I carefully placed them inside a ziplock and left them on the kitchen counter for later. I let the two dogs out; they weren't back at the door by the time I was ready to leave, so I left them to their own devices.

I drove dad's truck down the hill and up the driveway; my brother met me just by the barn. He was in the mule; I stopped and loaded the chairs into the mule, then drove the truck down and parked in front of his house. At some point, the limo arrived and discharged its passengers; I don't remember where or how it managed to turn around and park. The hearse was already at the burial site; I made my way up the hill to the site myself.

My brother loaded Grandma into the mule and drove her up the hill. I unloaded the chairs and set them in place. Grandma told me she'd just sit in the mule, it would be easier for her.

My brother and I were pall bearers, along with my cousin Adam (my mother's brother's son); Matt, a friend of both my brother and I (He and I had classes together in high school, but at some point he became a much closer friend of my brother); Jim, a friend of my brothers and husband to a childhood friend of my sister who I am also fond of; and Ethan, husband of my cousin Charlotte on my father's side. We gathered at the back of the hearse. I quietly yet firmly told my brother that he and I should be at the head of the casket, he absentmindedy nodded in agreement. His mind was obviously elsewhere.

My cousin Adam had apparently rushed to get to the funeral; he arrived at the funeral home in casual clothes and changed into a suit while there. As we gathered at the hearse, I caught his attention and motioned to his pants; his fly was down. I doubted that's how he wanted to be remembered at the funeral.

The funeral director began to ease the casket from the hearse. I asked him if the head of the casket was coming out first; he affirmed that is was. My brother and I took our places across from each other as the casket slid out. The other pall bearers fell in to place behind us.

The casket was surprisingly heavy.

It was only a few feet to the grave. As we walked, suddenly my mind was filled with images of me slipping and falling, dropping the casket and landing inside the grave. I tightened my grip on the casket, and concentrated on where I was placing my feet. I gingerly stepped along the edge of the grave, being careful not to pull the casket towards myself and upsetting the balance of my brother and the others on the opposite side. There were boards and ropes laid across the grave; we lowered the casket carefully onto the boards and took hold of the ropes. As we lifted the casket with the ropes, the funeral director and someone else slid the boards away. We slowly and carefully lowered the casket into the grave. I began to pull the rope free but my brother quickly and quietly told me the ropes stayed; I dropped my end into the grave beside the casket.

I have long been familiar with the phrase "six feet under," so I was surprised to see the grave was only four feet deep. It looked so shallow once the casket was in place.

As we were lowering the casket into the grave, the funeral director unloaded some of the funeral flower arrangements and placed them on the ground. I walked from the grave, and found a place were I could stand alone.

Words were said by the funeral director and perhaps my uncle. All I remember is shuddering with the effort to control my emotions; the occasional stifled sob still escaped me, and as hard as a tried, I could not prevent tears from running down my face. I tried so hard to be brave and strong, to be a rock others could look to for support since I had no one of my own, but I couldn't. It was all I could do just to keep as composed as I was; if anyone had approached me, if anyone had reached out and touched me or spoken to me, I think I would have collapsed.

Members of my mother's family began to each take a flower from the funeral arrangements, and dropped them silently into the grave. Once everyone was done, I went up myself and took a rose from the arrangement. I carried it to my grandmother where she sat in the mule. Princess, one of my father's two dogs, had wandered over to the funeral and was sitting in the driver's seat, keeping my grandmother company.

Grandma kissed the rose and whispered goodbye. She handed me the rose and I silently walked to the grave and dropped the rose onto the casket.

I then went to the funeral arrangements. Only one rose remained; I took it and searched for another flower. A blue iris caught my eye. Irises had once grown outside the kitchen window of the farm house, and as much as my mother loved all flowers, irises had been one of her favorites. I took the iris and walked to the foot of the grave. Silently, I stared at the casket, and the finality of the moment hit me hard. This casket now represented all that remained of my mother; everything of her, all her goodness, all her love, her presence, her touch, her scent, her voice; all were now wrapped up and packaged in the wooden box never to be felt or seen again. Of everything in the world, all that existed for me was myself and my connection to the casket. It was all I could see and all I could sense. There was nothing else around me. I don't know how long the moment lasted; I couldn't feel any passing of time. This was her last chance to say that it was all fake and she was really all right. But the longer I waited, the heavier the silence became.

I raised the iris over the grave, but my hand refused to let go and allow the flower to drop. I was still waiting for someone to tell me none of this was real.

Finally, I took a deep breath and tossed the flower. It landed on the casket right above where her hands would be inside. I whispered softly, "Goodbye, mom."

I stood a moment longer, then squared my shoulders and walked around the grave and rejoined my father. I handed him the final rose that I had taken earlier. He thanked me, and walked to the grave. Quietly, he tossed the rose onto the casket.

Not once did I see my father break down or shed a tear. I'm not sure I could have handled it if he had. No one ever wants to see their father show weakness; no child believes he can.

People began to make their way down the hill to my brother's house. I walked to the other side of the field, lit a cigarette, and slowly followed the fence half way down. I stopped by a tree, silently smoking, and watched as family and friends left the grave behind.