a grief unencumbered

I just got back from a funeral of a dear friend’s father who died quite suddenly. Having lost my own dad a couple years ago, I knew that the only thing you can do after a tragic loss is show up. And so I did.

The impression I had of her father had always been that of this gentle, wise figure. The dependable sort that reminded me of a 1950’s sitcom. Ward Cleaver, in living color. Well, when I tell you I didn’t know the half of it.

Everyone spoke of an unyielding kindness and an endless patience. His son said he’d never seen his dad’s frustrations or emotions get the better of him. Can you imagine? He volunteered and contributed to his community. He wrote poetry and ran marathons. He poured love into his children and adored his wife. He left a legacy of goodness and humor.

My own experience was so different. My dad, a complicated, tortured soul was swallowed up by life and often self-pity. He never once called unless he wanted something from me. And yet his death hurt in my bones. I realized, as I sat in the hard-backed church pew, that what I was witnessing was a grief wholly unencumbered by resentments or regret. Profound in its reach. A staggering blow.

After the service, I sat myself at a table out of the way and sipped black coffee. I knew no one else there, but was soon book-ended by chatty, clever septuagenarian women. We talked books and travel, careers and children, art and the economy. The woman to my right was a clothing designer in her younger days, owned her own label. She wore her fierceness in her short hair, just growing back from cancer treatments.

“I can’t help but wonder what they’ll say about me at my own funeral,” I mused. “It’s never going to be like that.”
“Oh, god, no. He was a one-of-a-kind,” she said. He’d been her financial adviser for decades, and she respected him deeply.
“No one is going to accuse me of being patient,” I said, laughing. “Though, kind, yes. I do that one pretty well.”
“Well, good for you,” she said. “I think they’d say I was tough.”
“Obstinate, maybe? I’ve earned that one.”
“Bordering on terrifying.”
“A mama bear.”
“Oh, for sure.” She’d been called that many times. So had I.
“Opinionated,” we said in unison and then laughed like we’d been friends for half a lifetime.

When she left, I sat quietly for a minute and recommitted myself to patience. Of course I want my children to say I was coolheaded and calm. But if they also get up to that podium and talk about how I’d rip the flesh off the bones of anyone who came for them with my bare hands, well, that’s probably okay, too.