Red Eyes

Pam starts to cry, and I’m about to.  Which isn’t something I do … so I hug her, close my eyes and take a deep breath.  She lost her husband of twenty-one years last week, and I lost a friend.  Funerals are the worst. 

Red-eye there.  Red-eye back.  Red eyes in between.  I’m getting used to airports with people in pajamas, churning through work on the table folded down from the seat in front of me and no traffic to speak of on the 101.  I’m not getting used to funerals, though I suspect that is something that starts to happen when the tens digit on the age-o-meter is a finksy or greater.  It used to be grandparents.  Then parents.  Now, friends and colleagues.   

It is one of those unpleasant, cold rain days of early March / late February on the Illinois plains, when all is brown.  Except it’s mid-January, and there’s no snow on the ground because no matter what the carbon industry goons say, the climate is demonstrably changing.  They say the single greatest variable in the number of people at your funeral is the weather, though I suspect proficiency with birth control and / or whether you are a jerk are also statistically significant.  I hope mine is during a blizzard, and the parking lot only contains Jeeps.  Hybrid Jeeps, powered by wind or solar.  Given the pace of Jeep change, that will make me 213.

Bill was 67, taken too soon following a surgery complication.  Pam is a little surprised I made the trip from the edge of the continent and I’m a little surprised some of his colleagues couldn’t make it across town.  I try not to read too much into how / when / where people grieve because it’s a deeply personal matter.  My own brother couldn’t bring himself to attend Dad’s funeral, and I harbor zero rancor about that.  But I did tell Colin that he better show up at mine, and say a few words in a clear, strong voice. 

I could have this one completely wrong too, but the showing up, and the clear strong voice, is the duty of the living.  You’ll want to cry, but take a deep breath, give someone a hug, and remember the good times.  The other duty is to create more good times, and have your life sufficiently squared away that if the reaper-o-grimness does a surprise scathing, there’s no lingering mess.  Debts paid, both social and financial, the City of the moment (in my case) steaming forward and the Jeep recently washed. 

Most importantly, all the loved ones clear that they’re loved.  Clear, strong voice.