We loitered in the room, but not next to the coffin, mostly, except at the beginning, when we gathered around and said, "That doesn't look like her at all." For a moment, I thought they had the wrong old lady.
But of course it was her. It's always like that, at the funeral home, and it was her.
"She was so sick," my mom said. "She was so sick."
I coaxed my Aunt Lisa to try to fix Oma's mouth. "See if you can get her mouth to turn up," I urged, and she did try.
"It doesn't move. It's like a stiff sponge, or foam."
...
"You really need a baby in situations like that," my friend A. said when I came back and we were talking about it all.
"Oh, my brother's little girl was there. I spent a lot of time sniffing her head."
"Yeah, there's nothing like huffing a baby's head to help with grief."
...
I looked back from my seat in the church to watch the funeral home staff take off Oma's jewelry and close the coffin, and I had teared up by the time they wheeled her into the sanctuary. A. and I both started crying during Abide With Me. I don't know why A. started crying, but I was crying because the last time we sang that song was at Oma's birthday party, and I kept thinking that she should be there. If we were singing that song, she should be there.
...
By some convention, it's always the men who carry the coffin, but my mom reversed it. We seven granddaughters were pallbearers. It looked so smooth when my uncles did it for my grandpas - had they done it before? - but we girls in our heels and skirts fumbled through putting the coffin in the hearse.
We had it down at the cemetery, where the sun was shining on spring flowers and bright grass as we carried the pretty blue box to the grave. "Don't trip on the headstone," several people warned us, and we didn't. We placed it carefully on the rollers.
...
We ate black bean burgers on the deck in the sunshine with my great-aunt H. from the Netherlands, and A. walked in graduation, and we took pictures on the green, green lawn.
"Oma would love this," I kept wanting to say.
"Oma should be here," I kept wanting to say.
But of course it was her. It's always like that, at the funeral home, and it was her.
"She was so sick," my mom said. "She was so sick."
I coaxed my Aunt Lisa to try to fix Oma's mouth. "See if you can get her mouth to turn up," I urged, and she did try.
"It doesn't move. It's like a stiff sponge, or foam."
...
"You really need a baby in situations like that," my friend A. said when I came back and we were talking about it all.
"Oh, my brother's little girl was there. I spent a lot of time sniffing her head."
"Yeah, there's nothing like huffing a baby's head to help with grief."
...
I looked back from my seat in the church to watch the funeral home staff take off Oma's jewelry and close the coffin, and I had teared up by the time they wheeled her into the sanctuary. A. and I both started crying during Abide With Me. I don't know why A. started crying, but I was crying because the last time we sang that song was at Oma's birthday party, and I kept thinking that she should be there. If we were singing that song, she should be there.
...
By some convention, it's always the men who carry the coffin, but my mom reversed it. We seven granddaughters were pallbearers. It looked so smooth when my uncles did it for my grandpas - had they done it before? - but we girls in our heels and skirts fumbled through putting the coffin in the hearse.
We had it down at the cemetery, where the sun was shining on spring flowers and bright grass as we carried the pretty blue box to the grave. "Don't trip on the headstone," several people warned us, and we didn't. We placed it carefully on the rollers.
...
We ate black bean burgers on the deck in the sunshine with my great-aunt H. from the Netherlands, and A. walked in graduation, and we took pictures on the green, green lawn.
"Oma would love this," I kept wanting to say.
"Oma should be here," I kept wanting to say.
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