Today's Funeral

I volunteered to take a vegetable platter to a stranger's funeral.

When my mother died, I couldn't bear to eat anything at her funeral. I felt sick to my stomach and, even though mourners are supposed to eat at funerals, I couldn't bear to eat a mouthful. I felt very much like vomiting blood on the floor of the hall and being carried out on a stretcher. That felt appropriate. What did not feel appropriate was picking up a plate and filling it with vegetables, little sandwiches, and chocolate-covered strawberries.

Regardless of my absence of appetite, someone in the background arranged food and removed empty dishes as the day progressed. It was too late to thank whoever did that at my mother's funeral, so I decided I would volunteer to bring food to funerals until I had eventually brought enough food to replace the food at my mother's funeral.

Except, I'm a novelist and food isn't really my forte, so when it was written on the volunteer sheet that I was coming to bring a vegetable platter, I was asked to take part in the funeral by reading a poem.

I said I would do it.

I was going to be there anyway and it was for a stranger, so it was unlikely that I would cry. A person who is not in mourning is a valuable resource to people who are.

I was told I could rewrite the poem if I wanted to, but I immediately declined. The poem I was supposed to read was written by a family member of theirs who had died young and I was reading a poem that was a tribute to a mother. I was not going to change it. Dead people deserve to have their writing read as is.

I didn't need to read the poem to know what I was getting into. I have seen a lot of poems written by people who think they are poets. It was not going to be a good poem. Instead of reading the poem, I followed the link and read the author's obituary. The only thing they said about her in it was that she was a poet.

No matter the quality of the poem, I was going to read it without changing a word.

The poem was a little like someone drawing two stickmen hugging and having fingerprints of hearts in oozing red paint and 'I love you, Mom!' written in a child's hand. Anyone who would dare say that it wasn't beautiful to the mother of that child should have a sock stuffed in their mouth. Except, a person would not normally display that kind of artistic attempt in public even in the context of a funeral.

But this wasn't a drawing and the poem had to be performed, so I was given a lot of artistic licence in how I performed it.

Besides being a novelist, I am also very interested in clothes. I had picked out what I was going to wear to the funeral from my very impressive closet. I was going to wear something black that showed respect for the dead without being too flashy. I'm always trying to stop myself from being flashy. By the way, I always fail.

The night before the funeral I had a few hours to kill in the city. I should have been editing a book. I should have been sitting in an empty car editing a book, but I felt a strong otherworldly impression to go clothing shopping. Trust me, I need more clothes like a magpie needs whiskers. I had to experience that spiritual urging several times before I went.

I found a gold sequined shawl. Just this tiny thing meant to cover the shoulders and I immediately understood what it meant.

The poem was not good enough for people outside the family to understand its value, but if I dressed in an exceptionally tight black dress and wore that gold shawl on my shoulders, I would take that woman's writing and transform it into opera with the cadence of my voice, with the startling contrast of my appearance, and with an air of conviction only a natural-born liar can accomplish. I would present it in a way that everyone in the room would feel love, the vastness of eternity, and experience new purpose for their lives right now.

At least, that was the plan.

Here is the poem:

She Is…

By Teri Lynn Maclaud

She is the one who brought us into this world

Whose selflessness was overindulged

And whose commitment to a lifetime of responsibility was undertook

She is the one whose patience ran deeper than the biggest sea

And whose own time was put on hold when needed the most

She is the one whose wisdom taught us to grow into the persons we are today

And whose personality can never top a million more

She is the one whose trust we depend on

And whose visions for a better day never let me down

She is the one we shall cherish forever

And whose love we will never let go

She is our mother.

Back to me. I did exactly as I hoped. I looked, sounded, and did as well as I imagined. As sometimes happens when I perform, I lose track of how many people congratulate me. But honestly, the real blessing was when I went into the dining hall after the funeral and friends called to me to sit with them. A friend walked with me to the buffet (I am terrified of buffets) and helped me choose food. I got to sit down and put a strawberry in my mouth and I no longer wanted to throw up. I had felt like vomiting blood for months after my mother's death, but today, I felt like I could breathe.

And that woman's poem was part of it. You can't send thank you notes to ghosts. Or can you?