I went to a funeral for a friend last week.

Going to funerals is a pretty common occurrence for me, unfortunately. I've been to 14 in recent years, and they're always an odd mix of deep loss, inadvertent hilarity, and the wonderful coming home-ness feeling of seeing loved & familiar faces, even under the worst circumstances.

This one was no different. I sat among friends, and we passed watery smiles, meaningful looks and tissues between us, safe in the comfort of each other. Funerals are never welcome, with their bleak reminder of the end line for all of us. With their 'what can never be again-ness' of a concluded life, and with their rolling waves of emotion and grief. Though we speak of continuity in the enduring spirit of a person & in the hope of seeing one another again- there still sits the inpenetrable question of how...

The fellow behind me, who I recognized as someone who had performed at the Bad Dog, proceeded to the front to pay his musical tribute to John. Maybe it was the vulnerability of him singing accapello, or maybe it was simply his deep grief, but I was moved as I never have been at a funeral. He broke down mid song in tears, regathered himself and finished strongly. But as he returned back down the aisle to his seat behind me, he cracked, and his grief spilled loudly and uncontained. He sat down, leaned forward and quaked in emotion. I think it's safe to say no one really knew what to do & so ignored him - though not really. He was alone. He was overcome. And my only recourse was pass him a tissue through the thick emotional haze. We shared a brief embarrassed glance and I turned back to the ceremony.

Funerals always seem to come to a staccato end. Too sudden, too final - and we all return to our lives, changed but unable to really grasp what's happened. From my comfortable group, I was suddenly drawn to another familiar face from the restaurant, contorted in pain and tears. She's an odd girl, a wild card outside of her world in a restrained funeral setting. I went to her, we held hands uncomfortably long, while her friend nervously looked away. She blew water and snot everywhere, then thanked me sincerely & graciously through her pain for coming to see her. I walked away more humbled than I think I ever have been.

Sitting in the back alone, was a black sheep that everyone feared may show up drunk at the ceremony. Funnily, I understand why people come drunk to funerals. It's an ending. A violent, conclusive stop to friendship & love. I think perhaps the Irish with their wakes, understand the need for some of us to blur the reality of that. Our eyes met, and he fell into my arms, hanging on for dear life. He wasn't drunk at all. Not that it would have made a difference.

***

As I've reflected on this, this week, I can only say my heart has pained. Pained at the death of John, pained as I've realized how very easy it is to remain within the safety of friends never seeing beyond, and pained how very much I might have missed...

My mom once wrote a poem that began:

The wind has a tale to me
As it whispers through the trees
The voices I hear are the lost ones
Bending the boughs in the breeze.

My hope is that somehow the voices of the lost ones will be the voices i always hear the loudest.

Perhaps I hear them because I am one myself.