Funerals
By: Cordula Kempkes
Tags: Short Read, Food, Life, Funerals

Its been ten years ago that our father and husband succumbed to cancer. A months-long cough and pain in the shoulder just metastases of his renal cell carcinoma. Stage IV cancer, his chances were 10–12 months with therapy. No one will tell you what this means. These last nine months were not pretty, filled with more severe side effects robbing the last quality of life my father had. He passed at the age of 68 on November 17th, 2010.

Food is the anchor in our cultures. Each culture proud of their dishes, their heritage. Family recipes are given from generation to generation. Festive foods are prepared on special occasions. The new year, religious celebration, city festivals, wedding days, birthday celebrations, sports events — each can come with its own courses of meals.

The differences between cultures sometimes marginal, sometimes so different. The most significant differences between cultures became visible when I lived through my father’s loss and my girlfriend's mother's loss.

I still remember how the cold slice of tasteless bread went down my throat on the day we lowered my father’s casket into the frozen ground in late November 2010. Don McLean’s ‘American Pie’ followed us from the grieving room down to the cemetery’s far end. It was the first day of a long, cold winter. Later that day, the fresh flowers covering the fresh grave would be covered with the first snow.

The funeral was itself horrible. Dressed in a new black outfit, bought just two days ago, I was sitting in the first row. The room behind me filled quickly, with me only knowing half of the people. Afterward, our family would invite all these people for lunch in a close-by pub. In my memory, the pub was nothing more than the place where some alcoholics would gather for their first beer and schnaps as soon as the door opened, which was 8 AM. I didn’t even know that they had a new owner because I hadn’t lived with my family for almost a decade. The last time I visited my mother, it wasn’t even a pub anymore but an out-of-place fast food place. The area we sat down with the grieving society was now used for frying food, the kebap meat circling on the electric grill.

Between grieving and organizing the funeral, I forgot to eat. Now, my mother suggested eating at least a slice of bread. I wonder if it was for my good or for the villagers to see that we don’t forget to eat throughout our grieving. Presenting a picture is almost more important than your true feelings in a small town.

It must have been the first time in years that my mother prepared a sandwich for me. After placing a slice of bread on my plate, she proceeded to cover it with butter, deli-meat, and sliced pickles. I bite, chewed, and swallowed the flat piece and let it travel slowly down my throat. My mind rejected it felt full after the first bite, but my body craved the feeding, and I finished my only meal on that day. Through a painful two-hour process, plates of deli meats, cheeses, bread, and butter came flying out of the kitchen, filling the stomachs of others.

Just only a few months later, my girlfriends’ mother passed away.

“Wear something in my mom’s favorite color,” she told me on the day we traveled to see her family.

It was the first time I saw her in something different than the typical black or grey-and-white striped T-shirt. The yellow T-shirt she wore was something I hadn’t seen in her dresser. I nervously asked if the T-shirt I wear all the time at home would be okay for the occasion. It was the only item I had at home in her mother’s favorite color. I should wear whatever made me feel comfortable. I should try to be myself rather than what I try to pretend to be.

We arrived at her sisters’ house, the door opened, and the smell of the delicious food escaped. The kitchen busy with family members cooking and wrapping up plates. Everything had to be ready in twenty minutes.

I stand amazed around the busy area, not sure where to place myself. Help was not needed while the kitchen table filled itself with more and more plates of Thai food. Aunts and sisters hurried up to heat their home-cooked meals in restaurant-quality. Everything looked and smelled vibrant.

Only then I realized that everything in the kitchen happened while the fresh ashes of their mother, wife, and sister were on the head of the table. The food was placed in time. The family members gathered at the head of the table to take family pictures. A lot of cameras were reached to me and another set of pictures taken.

A can of the mother’s favorite drink was open and filled in a glass with ice. Her favorite food was placed on small plates around the box with her ashes. A friendly-looking lady I never had the chance to meet smiled at us while we began to light up incense. The incenses in their hand, the family began to pray, some with tears in their eyes. When we were done, we placed the incenses close to the ashes and waited.

“Now we let my mom’s spirit eat first,” my girlfriend told me.

As the incense burnt down, the room was filled with happy chatter and discussion about what the ashes would tell them about their passed family member. Would she leave the next numbers for the big lotto win for them?

After the incense burnt down, we started to eat for hours and enjoyed the closeness of each other. The food was so vibrant and different from the dry slice of bread. Although there were some sad moments, the family's comfort seemed to be so rich in love. I was the only stranger to this woman whose life was celebrated on that day rather than her death.

Sadly, we lost my wife’s father just a few years ago. His pictures and ashes are added to the annual event. I’m glad he was able to meet his last grandson.

It’s been ten years since my father passed and I haven’t seen his grave in the last years. Instead, I cook him once a year his favorite dish and drink a glass of his favorite sparkling wine.

I love you, Vati.