09 - 13 Death

I sing the words of the lullaby he used to sing me under my breath. I’m standing in a natural ravine near our—my house. We’re surrounded by trees. The dirt path is filled to the brim with people. The narrow dirt paths aren’t used to accommodating so many people. Some people stand huddled between the trees. Others stand on top of fallen trees and stumps.

Standing here now, I still couldn’t believe how quickly this all came together. Hell, I couldn’t believe it was happening at all. My father had affected the lives of so many people in his life they all wanted to return the favor. They all did more than what was asked and the nothing which was required of them. City bylaws and even provincial bylaws were argued against. Laws and traditions with no basis in light of current scientific knowledge were changed all for his sake.

The result of it was the massive gathering here today. He would have hated it. Even though his life had affected the lives of so many others, he was the type of man who enjoyed the quiet life. Celebrations of his were quiet and intimate. I know deep in his heart, he loved the idea of large parties in his honor. His ego demanded it. But what he truly loved, the moments he truly cherished, were the quiet, intimate ones.

But as he always said: funerals aren’t for the dead. They’re for the living.

Today, we bury my dad in this ravine he loved. There are other places I would have preferred. The lake we frequented whenever we had time. But there were other considerations. It wasn’t because we weren’t allowed to. In fact, the people who gave us permission to bury him here first asked if we wanted to bury him there. The main issue is something my dad always wanted to start. It was a belief he had in changing the way we represent our dead.

Why, he would ask, do we build monuments to our dead in the form of cold, lifeless tombstones? Why build something so depressing? And why spend hundreds of dollars on buying a cage to bury someone in? They are already dead.

There is none of that today. No tombstone. No casket. At least not in the classic sense. Instead of burying him in a cage, his body has been wrapped in a simple, decomposable shroud. His life, the things which make up his body, will one day return to the cycle of life rather than being trapped inside a coffin.

When they were burying him, they tried to keep us out of it. They thought it would be kind and considerate if people he didn’t know dug the hole for him. There isn’t a single person here who agrees. Every one of us participated. Every one of us helped dig out the dirt that would become his final resting place. And every one of us had a hand in placing the dirt back over him.

A ritual for the living. He would have said. A way for the living to say their final goodbyes. But he would have said it with a smile on his face. And I would have countered with: isn’t that the point? Funerals are for the living. Not the dead. And we would have smiled with each other. Laughed.

We’re at the final part of our new ritual now. People have already spoken about him. Spoke about his life and the profound impact he had on their lives. They talk about the way his actions or his words turned their lives around for the better. Others share funny stories about his life. The things he said. The things he did. The way they brought joy into the lives of others. Then some talked about his own troubles. The trials and tribulations he had to overcome. And despite the darkness in his life, we only had to look around, to look at the crowd of people here to understand what he turned that darkness into.

I had spoken to. Talked about all those things and none of those things. I kept my words short and simple. They could have been longer. I could have talked about him for years and never stopped.

He was my father. He loved me. And I loved him. What more do I need to say than that?

The final thing he wanted: plant a seed over my grave. Let what is left of me, even after I die, grow into something new. I plant the seed in the dirt, right over his body. The tree should grow nice and strong here in the ravine. This particular plot was chosen precisely because the tree would flourish here. It would take time but years from now, the tree, the new life growing out of the dirt here, would be his living tombstone. Not a cold, lifeless thing of stone. But a living tree, growing and flourishing.

The first drops of water to nourish the tree are my tears.

“He dies.” I state.

“Yes. He does.” The Fool says somberly.

“How? Why? This is his story and we haven’t even passed the half-way point. How can he die?” I ask viciously, wounded with sadness. The Fool smiles gently at me.

“We just spoke of this remember? This is not merely about his life. This is about the affect his life has on others. And aside from his presence in their lives, what greater impact is there than his absence?”

The crowd has started to thin. I feel a hand on my back. It isn’t the first but this one feels cold. It feels different. I turn around to see my uncle staring down at the grave. There are no tears in his eyes though I see a genuine somberness.

“I wish we could have made amends in the end.” He says. I see the gray in his hair. I can see the skin on his face starting wrinkling. I see the age starting to creep into his body. Even after everything, I wonder how much of his wish is for him and how much is for my dad.

“I want you to know: I only invited you here as a courtesy.” I say it more viciously than I mean to. I think.

“I’m sorry my brother and I didn’t get along.” He turns to look at me. I keep staring into the grave. “I want to do better with you. If you need money for the house or for anything, I can—”

“You don’t understand.” I cut him off. I wonder how many times my dad has said it to his brother. “You are the only person I invited here as a courtesy. All the people that came today, every single one of them, came because they truly cared about my dad. Because he truly cared about them. Even your son. I invited you here so you could see that. I wanted you, the only living darkness in his life, to see the light he created despite you.”

“I—” I see it in the way he closes his eyes, the way he smacks his lips. He’s turning defensive, refusing to accept responsibility for his actions. It isn’t entirely his fault. The words I’m delivering, the blame I’m giving, are heartless. They are the vicious words my dad kept to himself. To my mom. And to me. To his family. So, we could understand him. So, we could understand his fears.

“That’s why I invited you here.” I clarify. “I invited you here as a courtesy. My dad invited you here so you could have a final chance to say goodbye despite what you did to him. Despite what you represented to him.” That shuts him up. I hesitate to say these last words. I don’t want to say them. He doesn’t deserve them. But in understanding that, I realize I’ve inherited some of my dad’s darkness. Even as he tried to keep me away from it. So, I understand, in that moment, I need to accept some of his light as well.

“But I think he appreciated what you represented to him. I think he understood what he learned from you. I think he knew the light he was able to give others, the love he was able to give me was because of the darkness you gave him.” I smile as the words he once said to me spring forth.

“The most beautiful people you will ever meet are those who have conquered their darkness and found a way forward. It isn’t just those who have defeated their demons. It’s the ones who have defeated them and have moved on from them. These people understand something others don’t. They’ve seen the spectrum of life and it fills them with something others don’t have. They aren’t filled with positivity or anything so binary. It is simply the understanding they have of life which make them the most beautiful people you will ever meet.”

I can’t believe I remember the entire speech he gave me. The one he gave me when I talked about the darkness, the demons, I had to conquer. And even as I say those words, I can hear his voice coming out of my mouth. It entrances both me and my uncle. At the end, I add something for him. Some of the light my dad gave me.

“That beauty, that understanding, is a gift you gave to him. Whether you meant to or not. And it’s something he’s cherished his entire life. It’s something he used to bring light to others.” I don’t know what I hope my words will do. I still feel the hate, the venom in my veins begging to lash out at him. I don’t hope my words bring him any light or comfort.

I pat my uncle on the back and leave. I’ve said enough. Both to my dad and my uncle. I’ve also realized something important. I realize what my words bring my uncle. Understanding.

I don’t turn back to look. I don’t need to. I can hear the sniffling. Hear the heavy breathing. The tear drops watering the seed.

“Is this really the end of his story?” I ask. The Fool sighs.

“Didn’t we just talk about this?” The Fool shakes his head.

“I mean, is this going to be her story now. Is this going to be the story of his effect on her?”

“What makes you so afraid of that?” The Fool asks. “What does it matter if it becomes her story instead of his?” I can’t answer that question. I don’t want to.

“Is it just that you don’t like her as much as you like him?” The Fool presses. “Or is that you see yourself in him and you want to see the rest of his life play out.” The Fool smiles like the Cheshire cat. I still can’t answer. I sit there with the film reel playing over and over.

I can’t help but hum the lullaby he used to always sing me as I start cleaning up his things. I’ve always understood why the lullaby he sang me wasn’t suited as a lullaby. I understood because as soon I was old enough to understand the words, the message, he told me.

The simplicity of a song that repeated “I love you” had its value. It had value in its simplicity and repetitiveness. My dad simply chose to do that in a different way. Instead, he wanted a lullaby I would remember when I was older. He wanted something I would remember forever with words and a message I could carry close to my heart for the rest of my life.

There aren’t many things left to clean up. My dad didn’t keep much to begin with. There were the necessary everyday things. Clothing, notebooks, files. Those are easy enough to handle. Donations or recycling. A few of them are filled with memories and nostalgia I carefully say goodbye to before deciding what to do with them.

It’s the personal things I can’t decide what to do with. I know what he would want me to do. Get rid of them. They were personal to him. It doesn’t mean they have to be personal to me. I do the same thing I did with his everyday things. The ones that are easy to say goodbye to, I do. The ones that aren’t, I take my time. I commune with myself, question the feelings I have as I pick it up. I remember what it is. What it means. And I decide what to do with it.

The majority of them: I say goodbye to, and I let them go.

There is one box I hesitate to open. I already know what’s waiting for me inside. The box is labelled neatly. It isn’t an old shoebox or some dusty box you see in movies. This is a wooden box I made for him when I was younger. I put real effort into it. There are intricate designs and patterns carved into it. The emblem which meant the most to him I carved neatly into the wood. There’s no dust on it. The box is slightly worn from being moved all the time. The hinges are a little loose from being opened all the time.

I take a deep breath. Close my eyes. Then open the chest.

I laugh to myself when I see what’s inside. Even knowing they would be things about me, I can’t believe the things he’s kept. I see my scrawled notes on crumpled sheets of paper. I see various tools for other dreams I chased. Pamphlets, updated ones, from the dreams I once had in my mind, carefully line the box. I even recognize some of them. He’d given them to me when I talked about a dream only for me to reject them knowing I couldn’t pursue it.

I was never good enough.

This box wasn’t my dad’s belief that I was good enough for them all. This box is my dad’s willingness to support even the ones he didn’t approve of. I see pamphlets and pages from dreams I knew he didn’t want me pursuing. He would never say it out loud but I could sometimes see it in the way he talked about it. As I take things out, I carefully look at them. I remember the things I used to dream about. The person I used to think I was. The person I thought I could be. Then, like with everything else, I say goodbye.

I’ve already found a dream to pursue. A dream I love with a passion. Thankfully, it’s a dream my father loved with a passion too. I don’t remember how many times his passion for what I do has kept me going. I start filling this heavy wooden box with things from our dream. I can’t deny his passion for this dream might have infected my passion for it. But I know: this isn’t just his dream for me. It’s my dream. It may have started with him but somewhere along the way, it became mine too.

I smile. The words of the lullaby sing in my mind and as I stare into that box, I sing them out loud for him.