Member-only story
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Lighting the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool isn’t enough
The first funeral I ever attended was for my Grandfather. Standing by his graveside on a steamy Miami morning, I paid attention to the despair surrounding me. Tears quietly streamed down my Grandmother’s face; my mother and her sisters bowed their heads. I cringed as the mounds of dirt thumped onto the coffin shoveled by each one of us. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
I was 24 years old; fortunate to make it into my second decade before shaking hands with grief.
Driving home, I watched cars speed by and marveled that everyone was oblivious that we were trapped inside the car, claustrophobic to our sorrow. It was a sunny day, but no one was aware of our individual darkness.
During the week of shiva and for days afterwards we held each other, we told stories and we ate too much food. There was laughter and many tears; we were filled up with love. I hoped that the memories people shared about him had been voiced before he died. It was exhausting but also cathartic. I thought I understood the process of mourning then. It prepared me for the loss of others, including my father and my Grandmother years later.
