Monday, January 21, 2008

What A Wonderful Life


Despite the rain and the cold and the pewter gray skies, they came.
I think perhaps a hundred people came to wake Lynn and I do not mean try and awaken her, but to celebrate who she was, to gather and remember. This old house took them in all in and gave us her hallways, her rooms, her ceilings and floors and porches as a place to gather, sheltered from the cold January rain- her sister and brothers, her mother, the relatives from Atlanta, the old hippie friends, the mother's church and bridge friends, the folks who'd worked with her back when she could work, her child, her stepson, their friends and posses. Later on in the evening when most of the crowd had gone home to their own houses, two of the people who'd tended her at the nursing home came and that's when we danced.
And sang karaoke, which Lynn would have loved and definitely would have done.
My daughter and Lynn's niece wore dresses that Lynn had kept from the old, old days, vaguely Indian, certainly hippie, and they looked beautiful, as young as Lynn had been at one time, as full of life as we had been when we met.
My ex came with his wife and their beautiful granddaughter and he and my daughter played some music. This time he didn't break down, this time he sang all the words without crying.
People looked at the pictures her sister had brought- Lynn as a baby, Lynn as a child, Lynn as a young, dancing woman, Lynn in the crazy sunglasses she used to make, Lynn with friends, Lynn when she was pregnant, Lynn as a new mother, Lynn with her four siblings at every age and every stage. Finally, Lynn in the nursing home, even as recently as a few weeks ago, smiling that gap-toothed smile that some say means sensuality.
I say it too.
Remember? Remember? Remember?
Everyone who came had one piece of the puzzle that was Lynn. We all remembered together, we put pieces together, another picture was formed, another dozen, a hundred, and yet, still, all together they weren't entirely Lynn.
Outside it was so cold and so wet. I went out to one of my porches for a few moments and watched the rain fall on the matriarch oak out front and thought how much we need rain. I was grateful for it and was grateful for the flowers and food and warmth and light everywhere in the house when I slipped back inside.
The first guests showed up before one p.m., the last left after one a.m.
She would have loved it and I wonder why we waited until she died to do this thing, to gather these people, to play this music, to eat this food, to dance, to drink, to praise, to laugh, to honor. Why didn't we do it as soon as we knew the day of her death was to come so much sooner than any of us would have believed? When she could still have eaten, heard and understood the praise and joined in the laughter, could have taken in the hugs and kisses, could have danced and drunk rum?
Well, that's not the way we do things. We get that diagnosis and somehow pretend that it's not real or that it doesn't mean anything and we put off the fun and we put of the honoring and celebrating until it's all too late to mean a damn thing to the one we've gathered for.
And don't tell me she knew it was happening. You can't prove that and neither can I.
But two years ago, I know she would have.
But we did it up as best we could without her. And even if she wasn't here, she was the reason all those people left their warm houses and drove all the way to Lloyd with covered dishes in their hands and memories in their hearts.
We did it.
And now we go on. The sun is shining today, the house is back to being just a home, the flowers are still beautiful, the glads and poppies and sunflowers and tuberoses and I'm all alone here and I think I'll go for a walk and it'll be quiet in the woods and because I'll think of her, Lynn will be there too.
As much as anywhere except for in the bones and face and blood and soul of her son.
And there I know she lives on, no faith needed to believe that.
Here's the funny thing about death- it brings with it more good than you can imagine. Peace and celebration and joy, too. For me it brings the knowledge that nothing and no one lasts forever. Not me, not you, not Lynn.
And it's okay.
Rain falls, the trees grow stronger, the sun comes out, it warms the ground, the flowers start to wake up in the wet earth.
We remember to live after death comes. I can't say more than that.

7 comments:

  1. That's a really great thing you did. I never met her, but I'm sure she'd be thrilled with everything you've done, and everything you've written. The world certainly needs more friends like you.

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  2. Yep. She would have loved that party. And she was the sort of friend you'd do anything for because she herself brought so much joy to the table.

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  3. That's beautiful. Finally managed to visit your blog. What a great place to land. Thinking a lot about death and families myself these days. So thank you for this post.

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  4. Thank you so much. I am enjoying reading your words, too. I like how we can share hearts across this relatively new world we have at our fingertips.

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  5. so beautifully written. I cried warm happy tears throughout the whole thing.

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  6. I just kept thinking- I'm gonna give Lynn her last party.
    I had lots of help though. Lots and lots and LOTS.

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