October 7, 2002.
Dogshaped Cloud

Today high in the sky above the rooftops I saw a cloud in the shape of a leaping dog. That was the best part of the day.


Funeral

I didn't know Jerry very well. He and I attended the same church. Gabe's dad called on Wednesday to tell us that he had died suddenly that afternoon. Out mowing the grass, heart attack, taken in an instant. The funeral was scheduled for Saturday.

At first I resisted attending—after all, I hardly knew the guy, right? Here's a piece of advice from me to both of us: whenever you get the chance to attend a funeral of someone you knew, even if you didn't know them very well, take it. Really, I don't think it will ever be a poor investment of your energies.

On Saturday morning the casket was draped in an American flag (who'd have known that Jerry had served in the Marines for ten years? not me). Here is one thing I loved about the service: there is no sound that beats unaccompanied human voices when you're in the midst of terrific pain and suffering. The litanies were beautiful. Orthodox services don't use musical instruments; the songs are always just choral. They were all beautiful and sincere, even more so than typical litanies during a regular church service.

I think I was suprised when I saw that I have changed just a bit over the past ten years—that's about how long it's been since I attended a funeral. In the past, I have secretly prided myself over the fact that I'm not the kind of girl who gets choked up easily. Yeah, I like to think of myself as a tough person. I don't cry at movies or weddings, and certainly not at funerals. I don't spontaneously burst into tears when I'm having a heart-to-heart conversation with a friend. Tough, see?

But at the end of the service, the priest invited everyone to come forward as the litanies were being sung, and pay last respects at the casket. I give myself a scant teaspoon of credit here — because I was moved to tears. And I saw that it was a Good Thing.

No, I didn't know Jerry. I don't know that I ever spoke to him once. But it all broke through to me. Everyone coming forward and touching the casket, those soaring voices behind me. I said to myself, and the tears sprang up: Damn, I am not ready to die.

Do you know that song by Lucinda Williams? "See what you lost when you left this world — this sweet old world." I thought of that song. My gosh, yes, life is a flying, haphazard, messy, complicated, lavish thing, and I don't want it to end. I pushed the hot tears away with my fist and laid my hand on Jerry's casket. There is so much yet to be done. I am not ready to die.

I need to taste lavendar honey again and smell my husband's skin and go hiking some more and visit a few other countries. I need to sing along with the car radio and go wading into the creek after the dog.

Where does this leave me? Should I make a list of priorities and tack them up here on the wall? Is there some sort of necklace or bracelet that I can wear that will remind me of what a prize life is? One that will somehow prevent me from getting back to all my petty and forgetful and trivial concerns? Isn't it strange to think that each of us has already unwittingly celebrated the anniversary of our own death — just by being here? (Where can I find that kind of bracelet?)

The last poem found in the notebook of German poet Rainer Maria Rilke appears to have been written just days before his death in 1926. In it, he, too, seems surprised to realize that he might one day die. "O life! O living! O to be outside!" he cries. Which of us will not offer the same cry when our turn to die finally arrives?

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I guess there are good days and then there are really good days. Good days are ones where you squeeze in a nice walk with the dog before work, and you wrap up that big spreadsheet at the office, and you get home at a decent hour and mix in a couple of vegetables with your dinner. And then there are really good days, where you do all of those things but then in addition, you remember why you're doing them, and you take a second to smell your husband's neck, and you actually stop and pick up an autumn leaf that could be on fire for all its color, and you remember that the dance to which you've been invited will not last forever.

Saturday was a really good day. I want to have more just like that. And even as I say that, I know that when the end comes, I still will not have had my fill.