This past weekend was neither the best weekend of my life nor the worst, but I may have been the most meaningful. I saw family that I hadn't seen in years, and we all sat together and hugged and told stories of my grandmother.
On Wednesday, after a long but productive day of professional development with the author of the bible of teaching, I went home, exhausted. I made some dinner (wild salmon) and got a phone call announcing my grandmother's death. I hopped in the car and drove home, getting to see all the preparations we've been making for weeks actually come into play.
It was like watching another family, at first. Someone else's family, not mine. We went through the motions, eating food and drinking wine (as she would have wanted) and making toasts (as she would have wanted). It was weird, and I didn't really feel a part of this big even that involved a few tears and lots of hugging. Even the following day, when we met with the Rabbi to learn what our roles were and to teach him about Mama, it didn't feel really real.
The next day, though, then it got real. And it was amazing. Other than sitting for a half hour, waiting for stuff to start, staring around at each other, the morning was a series of beautiful eulogy and tears and a lot of laughter. We had finally left the purgatory of my grandmother's illness and could begin to mourn and laugh and cry. Stories were told. Love was shared. We laughed a lot.
I think I understand funerals now. It was amazing to see dozens of people from the community come out to support my grandmother, including parents of my high school friends and the owner of Mama's favorite Chinese restaurant. But the service was for us. My family sat in the first two rows, and the service was for us. It was planned, it was an organized way for us to get together with estranged family and tell all of the stories in one place at one time.
The burial was rainy. Jewish tradition calls for members of the funeral party to pick up shovels and cover the casket with dirt. As a bunch of non-laborers trying to do physical work in the rain and mud, there was much laughter and tears. The whole process helped burn some nervous energy, but also helped me to make the transition between mourning a living person and mourning dead one. This beautiful, vibrant, magnificent woman was not that anymore. It was just a box, covered with mud. The occasional rock hit the wood with a thud and we giggled. Umbrellas fluttered and my grandmother wasn't there anymore, so we left. I understand now what they mean by closure.
The next few days were full of more family, and then friends joined. We looked at old pictures and laughed and cried, but this time there was more laughter and hugging than crying. There were platters and platters of bagels, lox, cream cheese, tuna salad, whitefish, rugelach, halvah, candy, cookies, and more. I probably gained a few pounds, but it was worth it because I got to see old friends. I only wish we could have such get-togethers, but for a happy occasion.
It's not over, but I had to go back to work. I can put the sad parts behind me because the rest of my life is incredible. I'm lucky. I have a great job, a nice apartment, a wonderful boyfriend, and I had a magnificent grandmother.
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