The youngest son of a friend and co-worker of John's died in an accident in his home this last week. He was two years, one month, and one day old- according to his father during his comments at the funeral.
The little coffin was heartbreaking. I couldn't look at it. THOSE definitely should be against the law. At least we sat in the back far corner and I had my sunglasses and I could divert my eyes and stare at the band when those people carrying that little itty-bitty coffin walked by.
Yeah, I said band. I'm not sure, but I am guessing that some churches have organs and pianos, and some have choirs, and this one had a band in the corner. Complete with drums and electric guitar. Very Christian Rockish. It reminded me of those infomercials I see on TV. I was grateful to have something to divert my attention. It seemed so out of place there. It was so odd to me. The band helped keep the tears in check until we walked out of the church to see them handing out yellow Spongebob balloons to all the mourners to release into the air, and the sight of those balloons made me lose it. I was really regretting leaving the tissues at home now.
I've already told the kids that when I die I just want a small graveside service, the cheapest casket they can get their hands on, and that's it. No fuss. No tears. Or, I don't think I'd object to having a band at my funeral. Maybe a cover band or something. Like the Beatles. Or a local garage band who wouldn't mind covering some of my favorite songs. I also wouldn't object to an Elvis impersonator either. It would be hard to cry with the absurdity of it all.
In related news, as we were making the hour long trek across the valley today, John mentioned that my mother had called this morning, and she had made a comment about not liking Valentines day. He had assumed it had something to do with the fact that my father doesn't have a romantic bone in his body (which he doesn't), but the truth of the matter is that it has a whole lot to do with the fact that today is the 23rd anniversary of her father's death. He died on Valentine's day 1986. I remember that date because a) it was a holiday, and b) I remember my mom having a bad feeling about 1986. She was dreading it and didn't know why. She kept trying to write 1987 on all her checks (this was before debit cards- or at least before she had one)
He died of cancer, and it was very quick and very painful. She was able to fly out to see him and say goodbye, but wasn't able to go to back for the funeral. It was a very dark day in my mother's life. John wanted to know if she was ever able to go back later, and I told him that there was nothing for her there to go back to. Not even a gravestone. My grandpa was cremated and had his golfing buddies scatter his remains at every hole of his favorite golf course. It was fitting.
So, um, yeah, I've had better Valentine's Days. I've lodged a formal complaint. But I'm going to go hug my own two year old now. Because I can.
