Forty-eight hours ago, I stood in the shower coaxing too much shampoo from my hair when Earl came into the bathroom.
“The nursing home just called,” he said. “My mother passed away a few minutes ago.”
The shampoo was forgotten as I grabbed for a towel and offered quiet condolences. The death wasn’t unexpected, as Velma had been declining for quite some time. But the actuality of it is always another matter. Life as we know it stops. Current plans are cancelled and future ones are put on possible hold, while funeral preparations take precedence. This flurry of activity is counterbalanced by inward reflection and remembering. Even a silent tear or two.
That’s what the past forty-eight hours has been about. Earl, his immediate family, and I are now all in Kingston, Tennessee for the visitation, memorial service and burial that will occur within the next forty-eight hours. Reflection seems to take a temporary backseat to these activities, as we meet other relatives and friends and members of Velma’s congregation in our communal grief and respect for the last of her generation. After all, Velma outlived six brothers and her husband to die at 93.
Yet I am struck that the one thing Earl and I have done for each other is be there to bury our parents. We met later in life, too old to want to have children together, already set in our career paths and our opinions, opposites in many ways. But when my own mother died, Earl’s flowers were the first to arrive at the funeral home even though we barely knew each other. When his father died the following year, I made the trek to Tennessee. Since then we’ve also buried my father and now his mother.
My own mother died on April 3, 1996. Velma died on March 30, 2006. We’ve been at this exactly ten years, and now we’re finished.
Leave a Reply