Christians believe death is a celebration. As a catholic I know it as a sacrament, and having lost my brother five years ago, a reality. My wife lost her grandmother yesterday -- ninety-three full years ended on a cold sunny day.
She died on the morning of Saint Patrick's Day. Her offspring mused that their father could not bear to spend another feast day alone and had called her home -- I knew in my heart she would go on this day. The incredulous component: I knew. We all did.
Many came to pay their respects during the wake on Monday. I felt oddly out of place. I had not been in this kind of situation since my brother's death -- my actions during that time were automatic, almost natural and now I felt discomfort and a compulsion to hide myself. I thought it odd that my experience could differ in such vast and disturbing ways. I should know what to say, how to comfort, how to empathise; I feel I came up empty and cool far too often. I have no explanation for my reaction and am unwilling to speculate. I miss Grandma Sully. I miss my brother. This is enough for me.
I will spare you the details of the burial mass as it is an experience which I selfishly protect. It belongs to each who mourn -- find your own sorrows if you must.
Grandma Sully is a gift.
I refuse to use the past tense.