My First Wake
We were driving back from vacation in Florida when Mom stopped to call Grandma and learned that Aunt Mary had passed. Mom looked hard at us when she told us the news and sometime between the long miles from Florida to our house in the Chicago suburbs, she and Dad decided we were old enough to attend the funeral. It would be our first. I don’t remember them talking with us about what we should expect or even what Aunt Mary would look like, but I do remember walking into the funeral home, the icy cold conditioned air contrasting with the heat rising from the blacktop where we’d parked; the cloying lilies, the way the area where she rested looked like a living room with couches along the walls, side tables, lamps, and boxes of tissue. The room seemed to stretch out as we made our way up front to view the casket.
“Aunt Mary has already gone to heaven,” Mom had explained before we arrived, information I was glad she’d shared with me as Aunt Mary in the casket looked nothing like the Aunt Mary who let us take as many coconut bars as we liked from her cat-shaped cookie jar.
The skin of this Aunt Mary was an unnatural tan all over, even her fingers, which were nested on her chest and held a rosary. Her eyes were closed and I was grateful for that, for the way she could not look at me as if she now had powers to see things in me others did not. A small pew had been set in front of the casket and Mom directed us to kneel. I made the sign of the cross and tried to pray, but the words kept slipping from my mind. I fixated on Aunt Mary’s chest. It didn’t move, and this seemed such a shock. After a few moments we stood and gave someone else a chance to pray for Aunt Mary, to tell her son, my uncle, that we were sorry.
Someone had set up a room with refreshments—a tray of cold cuts fanned out like a Ferris wheel. My cousin and sister and I made sandwiches on white bread and ate from bags of chips. I’m sure there were cookies. We hadn’t been allowed to bring toys, so we played games with our hands—Miss Mary Mack and Big Mac Filet O’Fish. Sometimes someone would come in and look in on us—my aunt or my mom and even my dad who seemed to also need a break from the living room where Aunt Mary remained unmoving. Anytime I returned to the room where she lay, my eyes returned to Aunt Mary’s chest. I was certain that if it were to move, if Aunt Mary were still breathing—I would be the one to notice.
She would show herself to me.
We stayed there all day, leaving only after the priest came and led us all in prayer. When we stepped outside, I was surprised to see the sun suspended purply orange, the day’s heat warm on the soles of my sandals.
A few weeks later, we went to Aunt Mary’s house and stood inside the rooms without her in them. Everything had a hushed feel to it, my own voice naturally quieted. Mom brought back the bottle of rose-scented hand lotion from Aunt Mary’s bathroom and a set of sheets with tiny pink flowers. Later when she tried to make my bed with them, I started crying and tore them off my bed. “Melissa. Don’t be silly!”
I didn’t know how to tell her how frightened I was of the Aunt Mary from the casket, the thick smell of the lilies, the idea that someday, as the priest intoned, all of us would reunite with Aunt Mary. It seems like it’s been a long time since I’ve felt such overlapping emotions—sadness and fear. How as a child there is only the confusing intersection, the tears and outbursts—the silences.
Mom tried to put the sheets back on my bed, but I put a hand over hers. “No!” I shouted and cried hot tears. She frowned, relented. She didn’t understand and either did I. The sheets were put away in the closet, and I was again isolated from Aunt Mary’s still shape and tanned skin. I didn’t have the words. Sometimes I still do not.
June Reading at the New Buffalo Public Library
So many kind writers and readers came out to the New Buffalo Public Library last week to discuss Ts, Timelines and Other Tricks Toward Your Memoir’s First Draft. One of the highlights was the beautiful introduction by Patricia Martin , who took a class with me through the Lafayette Writers’ Studio several years ago, jump starting her own love for creative nonfiction. Patricia has a new book out now Will the Future Like You? Reflections on the Age of Hyper-Reinvention. Check it out! I have no idea why I don’t have an image with Patricia (you’d think I’d be better at this picture thing), but you can check her out at Culture Scout.
Great piece, Melissa. Something like a wake or funeral, which becomes so "normal" to us adults as we age is, understandably, so strange to a child. That set of sheets--what a powerful image and memory. Thanks for sharing this.
Such a moving piece - as a parent you don’t always know what to do or say where death is present. I always thought our children would figure it out from our example, but we were visibly emotional as well in those situations. I guess I just hope it wasn’t too traumatic for them.