I was the only one who cried at her funeral. Funnily the only one who never spoke to her (I can’t speak Polish), and the only one who didn’t understand what the priest was saying (I can’t understand so much Polish either) as well. So maybe that explains why, I had nothing else to do rather than to stare at the small pot containing her ash and think of her.
Doesn’t mean i was the only nice person there, either.
Maybe had i known her better, or could speak with her, i’d not cry. Anyway, thinking how a person of flesh and bone who was walking, talking, making others miserable sometimes can reduce to a small silent pot of ash is very saddening.
My husband said the mass was exceptional and the preach was nice. I had no idea. I was never in a mass before to compare to. I was just thinking it’s so useless, all these grandness and purple gown, and echoing voice and singing, and ritual, it served its role as a formal goodbye to her, but it does nothing either to ease the pain (if some have it) nor to make any better for her.
She is dead. And that’s it.
They took her away, and put her in a small hole in the shallow ground, and I was missing her. Nowhere to be found again. That’ what death means.
There was no life in that pot, just a bit of dead bone, so that doesn’t count. It’d resemble a person more had it been a coffin, and you could see the body or face of the dead person. It’d make the false impression that the person was still lying there. But in fact it was just a lie. I remember my grandma’s funeral, the moment they lift her up from her bed. That exact moment when you see her body, like in tranquil sleep a moment ago, revealed to be stiff as a log when lifted up, the reality of death hits you like a punch as you realized there’s no life in that body anymore. It was not grandma, it was just a ‘thing’. It was dead.
So it’s no difference actually between a dead stiffened body or a pot of ash. It is the same feeling of loss.
The only moment when she was to be found was when she died. And she died alone. i’d prefer to die in the presence of someone. I’d not like to live my whole life alone, and die alone like that. I’d try to stir up my life a bit more, marry someone (I did), give birth to someone (I did), make someone happy (i hope i also did ) or if not make someone VERY miserable (my husband said she did, she has her special talent in this area, but still for me that was not enough of misery because if you didn’t marry anyone, you can not ruin their life – ruining life, that’s about enough of misery, less than that doesn’t count). In short, an ideal life has to touched many others, changed many others this or that way, but it should not be the same as it was before they know you. They could thank the day they met you, or curse it. Anything to ensure that some would feel the world a bit different once you’re not in it anymore.
i did cry. But i know it’s not long-lived.
I thought being in her flat and seeing her stuff without her, i’d feel sad. But i didn’t. That’s the horrible part. Her impact in fact is not so much upon anyone at all, if she is not very close to them. ‘Close’ here means being a parent, child or spouse, or someone life depends significantly on. She was not. She was an independent woman. She needed noone. And nooone needed her. Needed means ‘couldn’t live apart from’.
On the way to the cemetery, I was busy thinking what a miracle life is. You could have a whole body with brain and heart and blood and all things else and still dead. How to bring life to this body? Not this priest with his praying, no religion possess the magic of bringing back life. Life is in me, in the trees on the sides of the street, in the bacteria on the fingers of my child, life is in so many form, simple and complex, but not in her any more. Life comes from the act of sex. But what shoves us into the act of sex to start with? The liking of being (for one night or for one life) together with another one.