“All he wanted was more time with us, and he tried everything he could to get it. He tried so hard. But it wasn’t enough. It’s never enough.”
~ from the eulogy at a friend’s celebration of life today
Hello, again, you shape-shifter, you. You prism casting shadow puppets on the walls of my wanderings. One moment a dancing light, the next the looming shape of a baby tiger — then without warning, a grown one. I’m familiar with your forms, with your games. I was ready for you to seep out from picture frame corners and gently paw at my arm, whispering “let’s go” like the start of our favorite poem.
Let us go then, you and I …
Alright, then. Let’s go.
So we go, to the funeral and celebration of life of a stalwart in our local theatre community, the spouse of one of my personal heroines and recurring partners in art. He is honored with a packed house of their family, friends, and so many faces I know from the past 16 years of getting back into this lifelong hobby of mine.
As I make my way through the crowd toward an open seat in the back, I am stopped several times by arms attached to said faces, pulling me into an embrace, murmuring, “So good to see you, wish it were under better circumstances.” To which I reply, “Weddings and funerals.” And we nod at one another knowingly, hug again, and I start moving further back into the room only to be pulled into yet another similar exchange.
I doubt anyone predicted how much my body is craving those hugs, or what they would mean to me. I certainly didn’t. When I put this on my calendar, I noted the date and imagined the eulogy would offer me an empathic connection and a chance to quietly mourn. I wanted to go, because showing up at times like these is important. I am ultimately here because of T.S. Eliot.
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table
The service is simple, lovely, and heartfelt. The family speaks of the man who was constantly smiling, had a heart of a true servant leader, and loved his wife, children, and grandchildren with his entire being. Friends from the community theatre recall his passionate volunteerism as former president, fundraising chair, and frequent “Santa Claus”. A close friend elevates the room with more than a dozen short stories of his many hunting trips where he never hunted, but simply loved their company … and the food … and the martinis. The closing presenter gifts us with his gorgeous tenor voice in an a capella version of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow”.
I hear you singing along, in harmony. I feel you smile. I softly inquire if you are ready to go home. You whisper back, not yet.
Okay, then. Let’s keep going.
My next stop is the luncheon downtown for excellent food and drink, and a smattering of awkward conversations with strangers. I have one of those faces that make people think I’m someone else, someone that they haven’t seen in awhile and can’t quite remember her name. I occasionally find myself disabusing people about who I actually am, which in the context of a libation-fueled event includes several rounds of “I swear I know you from somewhere” where various locations and events are tossed my way in the hopes that one of them will hit its mark. This happens a couple of times. I wonder if I should apologize for not being someone else.
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
A friend waves me over to their table across the room, a friend who has never mistaken me for another, and who was glad I came. We are joined by several others of similar perspective. All thoughts of apologizing vanish like steam from a cooling cup of tea.
The luncheon ends. We all disperse.
Was that enough, I ask you as gently as I can. Enough of that, you answer, but not quite enough.
The words of the eulogy from this morning come back to me. “It wasn’t enough,” she had said. “It’s never enough.”
I sit in the parking lot for a few minutes, not quite knowing what to do for you. I ponder a trip to the art museum which you loved, but it closes in an hour. There’s the park, but it’s windy and cold. I close my eyes.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I start driving, eventually making my way to a cafe that used to be an old haunt. The place I loved is gone, replaced by something similar but not quite. Several of the same staff is here, and the coffee is still roasted every day by the former owner. That is a pleasant surprise.
Your voice has quieted, as though there is something to this revisiting of something lost, but still remembered, still strangely present.
For now, at least, perhaps that is enough.
Muttering Retreats 