In passing.
A death in the family, unexpected, is unprecedented. We’re all together, drinking red wine and nibbling Cabot on crackers and watching “Arrested Development,” joking and laughing when we’re not stunned into silence by bursts of pain, anger, resentment and regret. I’ll be chubby when I get back, but for once, I don’t care. We’re together, but without our rock, the cornerstone of our family, we’re all alone… and I think we know it.
I had a wedding to attend, mere hours after receiving the news. I sat in my bridesmaid’s dress, trying to suppress the memories of my own wedding, at that very event hall, four years earlier. Thinking of how my aunt somehow charmed my new in-laws. Thinking of all the photos we took, my aunt and I, my aunt and grandmother, my aunt and my college friends. I repressed, tried not to be selfish, tried to dance, wore my game face as well as I could, and struggled to summon and share all the happiness I genuinely felt for my oldest friend on her wedding day. And it was, all things considered, a beautiful wedding.
The justice of the peace who married me attended the funeral. She recognized me before I even saw her. So did lots of others: former teachers, my dad’s colleagues, my cousin’s neighbors, my brothers’ friends. My family has a big support network; a lot of people care about us as an entity. We’re lucky. But none of my hometown friends came.
I did, however, get e-mail on my BlackBerry during the wedding: photos of my cats, from a friend who stopped by to visit them. I had new e-mail whenever I ducked out of funeral events to check my phone: “Trying not to intrude on your family time, but thinking of you, hope you’re okay.”
These were my comforts. Messages from Chicago. Family in Massachusetts. Wine flowing like water. Photos of my aunt in the ’60s, beautiful with her Marlo Thomas flip. I’d never known she had long hair, or that she’d ever indulged in glamour. I’d never known she, too, had studied bellydance. Nearly a year into my lessons, I’d have thought someone in my family would mention this connection.
I expected to find a refuge in music, the songs about death I’d always heard and sang along to, but never quite understood because I’d never felt that particular brand of pain. But I’ve yet to discover someone else’s lyrics that work. All those songwriters’ loved ones simply couldn’t have been as spectacular as mine.
To wit: there was a particularly surreal occurrence on the day of the funeral, and it requires a bit of backstory. I used to have a gift for finding four leaf clovers; over the past twenty years or so, I’ve found hundreds. I could spot them in clusters, in patches, where it seemed no one else could see them. (I once gave a plastic bag full to my high school boyfriend, as an apology for some ridiculous, long-since-forgotten argument. He left the bag on the backseat of his car, to be found days later by his mother, who refused to believe the dessicated and dusty green leaf matter had once been a record-breaking pile of lucky clovers.)
But it had been some time since I’d found any. At least a year. Perhaps two. Were it not for my fears of needles and superficial pain, I’d have a tattoo of a clover on my left foot, my former clutch foot, to remind me of this gift and others, to remind me never to stop looking.
We arrived at the church, the rain giving way to sun. I stepped out of my dad’s car and immediately, instinctively kneeled on the sidewalk. Within seconds, I’d picked a flawless clover and straightened up. I palmed it, felt a wash of calm, and closed my hand.
The funeral director was staring at me. A stage whisper: “What’s she doing?”
“She probably found a four leaf clover,” my mom explained, as if this was normal.
The story of my good luck charm made the rounds that day, the clover itself passed up the pew as my relatives broke down in tears. I told my parents I feared I’d lost my gift, that I still think I have, that my aunt made an exception to show me the way. I even told my parents, who hate tattoos, that I was once again considering marring my flesh. As a tribute. For once, they didn’t tell me I’d ruin my life. I think we all have a better sense of perspective now.
