Attending a Funeral

I returned to my adopted home of New Hampshire to attend the funeral of my children’s grandmother. Despite my excitement to return to a place I love, I knew I was entering an “emotional minefield” and needed to have my wits about me or, as they say in AA, be “prayed up.”

The roads were familiar and the pines as fragrant as I remembered. Tempted to roll down the window and shout “I’m back,” I refrained. This special place, so intertwined with my soul, existed whether I was there or not. Still, I was desperate to awaken our dormant relationship. I went to an familiar diner, drove by our old house, passed the church I used to attend, and ate a flavor of ice cream I’ve only found there, but none of it stirred the magic I missed and craved.

The funeral was down the road from where I used to live and my chest tightened as I entered the sacred space. Ex-inlaws were up front and other familiar faces were now adorned with grey hair like mine. I took my seat in the back, where I felt I belonged, and, real or perceived, some greetings seemed frosty and I was tempted to read into each one. I tried to focus on the mother-in-law I loved, but after the service, I went to her grave to say a proper goodbye alone before skipping the crowded receiving line.

No place to go, I drove and drove. I even imagined buying a place to which I could return from time to time but realized I was like a child knocking on a door that had shut years ago. No matter how hard I knocked, it remained closed.

I came to attend a funeral. I just didn’t know that funerals come in all shapes and sizes and that grief wears many masks.