Death in Autumn Isn’t Final?
Tell that to someone in mourning
Alert: these are my personal opinions. They have nothing to do with what’s generally acceptable. If you disagree in any way, you can share your opinions respectfully or not at all. Thank you.
As much as possible, I steer clear of funerals. Besides the fact that they evoke such emotions I can’t fathom, they tend to make a cynic of me. Like, why do we have them?
Are they really the last respect paid to the deceased or an assuaging of guilt for the living? Still, we all mourn differently. If grief is love with nowhere to go, I don’t have the right to tell anyone how to mourn their loss.
The other day, I was coming back from the café, where I had spent a few hours working. I ran into a small funeral procession coming down a small hill, heading to an old graveyard at the end of the road.
The procession was led by a burgundy coffin with gold handles carried by somber-looking men. Behind the pallbearers, two elderly women held each other, clasping a portrait of the deceased on each side. Behind them, a few people followed, maybe 10 or so, at a slow pace.
Though I could see no tears, there was also no joy. It was quite windy, with trees swaying and showering the group in a confetti of dead leaves and debris. The scene was quite poetic.
Normally, I would find another route and continue my journey but not that day. Suddenly, I wanted to know more about the deceased — not that it was any of my business.
I draped my afghan over my mint-colored crop top. My dark cargo pants and boots easily blended in without drawing any attention. I joined the end of the line, following the procession into the graveyard.
The place was quiet except for the crunch of boots on dry leaves. Moss-covered gravestones lay scattered across the grounds. If graveyards have a peculiar smell, I hope they smell like damp earth just recovering from rainfall. Child me would have quaked in her boots at the thought of being there but adult me found the setting soothing. Is this maturity?
Lagging way behind the procession, I stopped by a weathered stone. It was neat and bare, lacking the unkempt appearance like some others. I traced the epitaph with my eyes.
“Susan J. Roth ~ Loving Wife, Great Mother, Kind Sister ~ July 1958- February 2011”
I sighed. She was born the same year as my mom. I wondered who this woman could have been. She seemed the type who loved and gave without expecting anything in return. A lot must have happened in her lifetime represented by the dash in between. But I’ll never know.
I moved to another tombstone; it was a man this time.
“Alan Whitaker ~ Beloved Uncle ~ December 24, 1947- November 15, 2020”
A short inscription read;
“Death in autumn isn’t final.”
“Death in autumn isn’t final?” I murmured, asking no one in particular. Were these Alan’s last words? True, autumn is symbolic of endings signifying new beginnings. But extending that symbolism to human life seemed to call for deeper introspection. Whether the irony was lost on the person who chose the epitaph, or their grief could not be interpreted in some other way, I didn’t know.
The more I ruminated on the phrase, the more I thought I understood what they might have meant. I thought them having a rich sense of humor. It was like saying “In your face, death!”
It seemed Alan lived a great life, and the end was a satisfying finish.
A sharp cry jolted me from my reflections. I whipped towards the source. It came from the small gathering, clustered around an open grave. The coffin was being lowered into the earth. One of the women clutching the deceased’s portrait cried openly, the other held on tighter, not letting her go. I felt like an intruder with no right to see their grief.
Maybe Alan was right. Death isn’t final. Someday, this loss might pave the way to something joyful…or not.
