Everytime I travel by plane, I email Ketisha Ann the list. The “what to do if I don’t come home” list. She hates it. I do it so that everything I want done is done right. So that Troy doesn’t have to worry. So that my wishes are completed. So that nobody finds some rando preacher to come to a sermon that would make my skin crawl if it were alive to do so.
Everytime there is a death in either my family or Troy’s it brings up my obsession with funerals. Mine, mama’s, my grandparents, and my pure unadulterated disdain for them. I’ll say that I’ve been to some recently that were lovely in thought and message and some that sent me into pure anxiety attack mode. I can’t walk into Robinson’s and leave without sweating, freaking out, or otherwise unleashing my horrid mental health upon whoever is in my path. I tend to stuff the feels away into file 13 of my brain…until there’s something I can’t escape. That thing is usually the leather sofa at Robinsons. It makes me viscerally unwell.
Besides the obvious trauma that was my mother’s funeral there, the real root of the issue was my uncle’s family night there. My uncle wasn’t really my uncle but my second cousin, technically, but I adored him and I thought he was the best thing since sliced bread. To find out his transgressions and deal with his untimely departure from my world paired with seeing him at Robinsons in that state was traumatic before I knew what traumatic even meant. It’s etched into my memory in such a way that it’s shaped every other memory of loss I’ve ever had.
Fast forward to the second biggest loss of my life. My Mama. We did everything at Robinsons. It’s what appo people do. I don’t remember anything of substance regarding the service, but I do remember the flowers not being quite open yet. I remember Lily being tiny and fussy (but not in a bad way…just the way that babies are naturally), I remember a random coworker who I never really liked much signing the book. (Like why?!) I remember my friends being there. I remember meeting my college friend’s girlfriend at the time, now her wife. She came all that way for me? I remember the fucking leather sofa. I hate that sofa.
Services. Now that I’m mostly deconstructed from any form of religion, I really hate traditional services. That’s probably a shitty thing to say, but I’m not one to lie about much. I’ll say this tho—my dear grannie and papa did it right. We had lawn chairs and a few people at the farm. It was perfection. Which leads me to my thinking—what do I want?
I want snacks. I want lawn chairs at the farm. I want a giant rolling speaker hooked up to Ketisha Ann’s phone playing the Spotify list of the best jams ever. I want people to have red cups. I want people to be comfy and tell ridiculous stories of the fun we had. It will be totally unserious. It is invite only.
Regrets. Every time there is a loss I think about a few things that I regret. For as much as I hate the act of funerals, I have major regret in missing a few. I should have been there for Jessica, my very best friend in this whole world, when her daddy died. I loved him. I love her. Why I wasn’t there was probably stupid distance that should have never been there. The same goes for her granny who I loved like my own when we were teens “running the roads” as she used to say. I regret not seeing another high school friend when he lost his dad not long after his mom. I should have been there. The rest of any that I’ve missed I’m ok with. But those ones haunt me.
Grief is a bitch. It’s never ending. Big loss never leaves you. You want it to. But it follows you and sometimes consumes you in ways you never recover from. It comes to you in memories of stupid leather sofas, cheap tissue boxes, moments when the one person who could help isn’t there.
Jessica and I talk about it often because we’re both in the no moms club. We spend at least a day if not more while at the beach wondering about what our moms would think of us. What we would be doing if they were here because undoubtedly we’d all be together at club med being ridiculous together. (Except maybe not club med since there is no casino in sight for ol’ ma.) We laugh about how the moms would be at the wine festivals with us, cigs in hand, lit the fuck up and shaking their heads at us. This last trip we really missed them because who is going to tell us about menopause? Like there is no fucking “are you there god? It’s me Margaret” book for us to read like when we were 11 getting our periods. We need moms dammit. We don’t wanna Google this shit. We need this info.
Lastly I think about legacy. People always talk at funerals about legacy. What people remember. How they cooked for everyone. How they were so faithful. How they lived they life for the Lordt. How they loved their families. But what do I want mine to be? It’s pretty simple—I want to be remembered for my work. For the lives I’ve hopefully touched and guided over the many years I’ve had as an educator. I want my son to think of me as a decent supportive mama. I want people to remember I was always a supportive ally, advocate and friend to those who didn’t have the voices of white cis heterosexual men. I want to be remembered for never wavering on being the tiny blue dot in a sea of red. Hopefully I’ll be remembered too for being a decent enough friend and wife too. That would be a bonus.
I think as I’ve aged and am closer to 50, it’s really become clear I’m past middle age. I’m on the downslope. And I’m closer to the age my mom died now than I ever have been. That said, I have a lot of fucking life left. I have a ton more bad choices to make, debauchery to have, bread to eat, stories to write, lives to touch, ass to shake. And while the grief never leaves, neither does the good stuff. You just gotta remember it. Keep it alive.
Now, don’t mind me dreaming up my playlist for Ketisha Ann. The last song I added was a good one from my man 50. 5 dimes. 2 quarters. If she doesn’t play it, I will haunt her.
Now, go love on your mama for me. Love you. Mean it. . 💜
