Lessons in Death
By: Vicki Nelson
Tags: Death, Grief And Loss, Life Lessons, Family

Death bewilders me. Perhaps it is the uncertainty of the experience. The loneliness, the fear, the departing of a soul. Or maybe it is the abandonment of loved ones, and of life itself. Mostly, I think it the realization that one day my own life will come to an end.

I am thinking of death lately, after losing an aunt and uncle within three weeks of each other. They were married, my aunt went first. My uncle never grieved, at least not outwardly. But I think his heart was broken. I think that’s what killed him.

We each grieve differently. Some follow rituals, claw at the earth, or toss yellow roses on the newly deceased’s bed. Some are silent, serene, distant. Others mourn in unconventional ways, self-imposed rules created for themselves. I would find this out at the first funeral I attended.

It was July, 1973. My uncle had just died of a heart attack. I never knew him. He lived in Georgia, far from our Minnesota home. But I remember the funeral well. The air was thick, a dense paste that plastered my long dark hair against my neck. Gnats swarmed, and snakes slithered across wide dirt roads.

Friends and family gathered around the casket, wiping tears off dewy cheeks. The vault was open, the casket fell, people jumped. My aunt sighed loudly. For a moment, the world stood still. Even the birds were silenced.

Then it was over. Death had won. Grievers walked away, heads hanging, as if to raise them would be arrogant. Only my aunt remained, staring at the casket holding her husband’s shell. He left her, alone with two children.

My cousins and I walked quietly to the station wagon. Their round cheeks, touched deeply by the Southern sun, were neither happy nor sad. As we drove away, the dismal scene of their mother faded from view. I expected them to weep uncontrollably and grasp each other’s hands, but they never did.

Instead, a soft tune emitted from the boy’s lips. His sister joined and their voices grew, spreading melodic strains of “Delta Dawn” and “Leaving on a Jet Plane” throughout the car. As their youthful voices sang, my heart ached for a man I never knew, and for children who didn’t know how to mourn.

A few months later my family experienced another loss when my mom’s mom left the earth. Her five children, spouses, and grandchildren wept uncontrollably, wrapping their arms fiercely around one another. My grandma’s death lingered for years, in the lefse at Christmas, and the black onyx strung around my neck.

Just a few years later, death arrived again, this time removing my last grandparent. My dad’s family never cried. Melancholy, stoic, a silent day of reverence, a day of unspoken memories.

Soon after, an icy river took my uncle. Once again, my mom’s family didn’t pretend, they clung and grasped each other, as if they wondered who would be next.

In 1991, my father passed away. Friends and family assembled at the cemetery, a blistery December day two days before Christmas. A flag covered the casket, red and blue, a sharp contrast to the glittery snow. Thousands of marbled stones were lined as rigid as the soldiers beneath our feet. Red flowers held tight to green wreaths, a somber reminder of uncelebrated Christmases. Sobs and sniffles, feet shuffled on icy ground, throats cleared, and tissues met eyes. Wool jackets pulled tight to chilled bodies. My jacket lay limp, heat warming my veins.

A call to arms was given, a military salute, a rifle shot through the air. Bugles sounded their cry. The pastor spoke with words I could not hear nor understand. The flag was folded, placed in my brother’s open arms. His large body heaved forward, shaking as he wept. I shed no tears.

The funeral ended. People approached, recounting anecdotes of a father’s quirky wit. Some wept, all looking to me for reassurance. I said he was happy, dancing the golden streets above.

Grieving has a three-fold purpose, for the sake of others who expect a display; for the life itself, be it short or long, it is always unfinished; mostly, I think grieving is for those who are still alive, the selfishness of having a life stolen, long before we are ready to release it.

As I stood that day, seeing some with chins held high and others with arms wrapped tight around another, I was reminded I was not there to console, to grieve or support, but to say goodbye to a man I held in my heart.

I knew I would grieve one day, that the tears would stop and never end. I would mourn for moments lost, memories no longer made, and for times that would become distant and foggy. That day as I listened to others sob, I would remember my first lesson in death, and I would celebrate, not of a life lost, but a life lived.