They’d reserved the largest funeral home available… and still,
it was standing-room-only. You always
get a crowd when someone dies “before their time.” I ask you, does ANYONE ever
think it’s his or her time? These
weren’t just locals filling the hall to the rafters… once word got out, people
made it their business to get there. Her last congregation chartered a plane so
they could all come. Really.
Maybe you wouldn’t get that kind of crowd today. This
was before funerals were “streamed” or “Skyped.” There was all that inconvenience of taking
time off from “regular” lives. We dressed in black, carried an adequate supply
of Kleenex in our little black handbags, signed a hard cover book of
condolences, not a virtual one, and dutifully filed past a beautiful 8x10,
guaranteed to break your heart.
In life, if you play your cards right, when you go, someone
delivers a nice eulogy on your behalf.
But today, one eulogy after the next knocked it out of the park. As they say in the Book of Proverbs: “A Woman
of Valor, who can find? Her worth is far
above rubies!”
We had been sisters.
Actually, there were three of us before the tragic and untimely demise
of the eldest. Now we were down to two,
sitting tight… side by side… hunched together… listening.
Who were they talking about? Was this OUR sister? The one who watched PBS, listened to NPR and
had read “Mastering the Art of French Cooking” from cover to cover? The one you called for answers to questions
on potty training, pre-schools and puberty?
Only slightly older, she grew up beside us, but soon flew past us to
college, to marriage, to motherhood, and somehow, under our radar, she managed
to sail through so many lives, leaving a trail of lasting goodness.
Somewhere, after eulogy three or four, my remaining sister elbowed
me and in a very hushed voice asked, “How do you think I’ll be
remembered?” She paused, and then
whispered solemnly, in my ear, her own eulogy, “She played Mah Jong and
Tennis.” I squeezed her hand hard to
suppress my laughter, and to keep from crying.
Soon, the events of the day were over. The last words of consolation were uttered, the
last guests had left, and I returned to my hotel room with my mind numb and my
heart exhausted. Drifting off that night, I recalled my sister's words at the funeral when she posed the question “how would
she be remembered?” Before dropping
off to a night of deep, deep dreamless sleep, I mumbled to the walls, “and how will I be remembered?”
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