Is it ever sunny at a funeral?

Reflections on a loss and what follows

Loss of life is always painful, but it also forces you to confront fears and discomfort that would otherwise be swept under the rug. There is the mourning of a loved one, followed by a whole plethora of additional triggers that will assault the senses. You have to continue keeping up with work, you have to continue grocery shopping, and you have to continue addressing your own personal challenges that were already messing you about. And now you have to think about death.

My uncle passed away, leaving his wife, two kids, and two grandchildren. I was told he was entering hospice on Wednesday afternoon and that night he was gone. Less than two days later, I was at his funeral. This is typical in Jewish tradition, but it still feels like a gut punch of emotions that occur over less than 48 hours.

I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to someone from my parent’s generation. We only buried my last surviving grandparent a few years ago. The little kid in me wanted to throw a tantrum because this wasn’t supposed to happen. Not only was the loss heartbreaking but there was something incredibly existential about it all.

As I made my way to the gravesite, the headstones of our family members were lined up as they were just a few years ago. I stood by my grandparents’s grave and placed a stone on top for both of them, paying my respects. I heard my mother from behind me saying “That’s my grandma, Minnie.” There was a childlike sound to her tone that I don’t hear often. So I watched my mother place a stone on my great-grandmother’s headstone. She doesn’t have much of a relationship with Judaism, but there was something primal and deep about seeing that small gesture come from her. Four generations of women right there.

I always had a hard time at funerals. There is an expectation of what grieving looks like. I don’t feel judged by my family, but still, I rarely meet that expectation for myself. I can feel distant, and detached, almost afraid that my body language will come off as aloof and indifferent. This is odd for me because I’m a crier, but something about this environment makes me go into some form of protection mode.

Looking around at all the mourners in their sunglasses made me regret not bringing my own. My eyes have been swollen from the rollercoaster of emotions over the last week. Why did I feel the urge to hide that?

Standing next to an open grave is always a visceral feeling. To make matters even more assertive, it is Jewish tradition to pick up a shovel and help cover the coffin. It’s not an easy tradition, but it’s a mitzvah to help provide that closure for the family. As the cantor was leading the service, my attention darted back and forth from him, the crowd, and the overcast skies. I’ve been to many funerals for someone my age and I couldn’t remember a single burial where the sun shone. Was that the truth or did my memory rewrite all the weather to be gray, damp, and windy? Just as my thoughts continued to wander in that direction, the sun came out.

My uncle had been in the hospital for several weeks, and there was hope during the entire period. At the funeral, Aviva talked about some of the paperwork where my uncle would have an opportunity to express a complaint or bring some discomfort to the hospital’s attention. He had nothing to say but to express his gratitude for having another chance.

He had the opportunity and every right to complain but instead he was grateful.

Gary was such a giving and loving man with the strongest Long Island accent in existence. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for his family. He even took my cousin Aviva to a Lil’ Kim concert when she wasn’t old enough to go by herself. Whenever I posted my singing or a live-stream performance, he always watched and commented. Classical music wasn’t a genre that he had an interest in, but he loved music and always had an interest in what I was performing. At Aviva’s wedding, I sang Till There Was You, because there aren’t many songs better suited for a wedding. I knew the piece as an iconic number from The Music Man. Not only did Gary enjoy this musical, but he also loved the Beatles version of the piece. When I visited him in the hospital, he still mentioned that performance. I’ll miss hearing his voice and his puns and that added R at the end of my name.

I almost felt like a ghost at Shiva, as if I was on the outside looking in. Everyone was coming up to me to express their condolences, and I almost felt nothing. Just numbness. I watched Aviva’s friends buzzing about, setting up the food and drinks, fixing plates for my cousins and aunt, covering up the mirrors and all other things that are tradition. Her best friend told me they had spreadsheets among the friend groups and how they were bossing around the husbands to what needed to be done. As typical for my family, it was a pretty noisy gathering. I always make the joke that if there are ten family members in a room, eleven conversations are happening at a time. My cousin Mike’s small dog was running around barking at everyone. I don’t particularly like small dogs, but there was an odd comfort in this. They grew up with a Pomeranian named Happy and after he passed, Aviva adopted a terrier/Pomeranian mix that passed away in December. So something about the high-strung dog and the din of chatter in a one-bedroom apartment felt familiar, even comforting.

As my parents and I left the apartment, I asked them if we could go to Jones Beach. It was only a few miles away and large bodies of water in unfriendly weather were always a comfort for us. This was the beach my mother grew up going to. She lights up every time it is mentioned, reminding us of when she would come home from law school and she would insist that she and her dad would visit the beach, even in the dead of winter. When we got to the beach, no one was there. The skies had this magnificent glow while still being overcast. It looked like an oil pastel canvas.

Jones Beach, taken by my dad

We only stayed several minutes, as it was cold and it had already been a long and tiring day. We were making our way back to the desolate parking lot, a bit wind-blown and red in the face. And then the sun came out.