A football field of fake
yellow silk, the brilliant yellow of lemon peels in the noonday sun. Thunder
and torrent drowning out the priest. The awning shaking with the weight of
rain. Incense everywhere, in the air, ashes spotting the wet ground a moment,
then dissolving. The chanting is inexorable, guaranteed to put you in a foul
mood if you weren’t already. The prayer bells lend the occasion the somnolence
of a zeppelin slowly deflating.
The undertakers,
efficient, are taking down the funeral decorations while the service proceeds.
The deceased apparently do not mind. One accosted me as I brought the departed
one more meal, I think he was worried that he would have one more thing to
pack. The most clean cut undertaker acts as a conductor, timing our bows,
herding us with the efficiency of a jaded sheepdog. Our guests line up to offer
one last prayer, the family, arrayed around the coffin, bows deep to thank
them. It’s the only human moment in the whole affair. We bow and go round the
coffin and bow and burn incense and do not, even once, speak of the dead, her
deep gentleness, her sweet tooth, the softness of her hands, the yellow enamel
pots with which she cooked, the vibrant richness of her language, the history
witnessed by those glittering eyes, the utterly unconditional love she showered
on us.
Cherubic relations,
with the smiles of the innocent, have their cell phones out, recording
everything. I try to imagine when they’ll whip these videos out to show.
The undertaker calls
for volunteers to carry the coffin. He has a decent baritone. My cousins and I
lift grandma into the hearse. Her sons push the hearse, the family following
behind. We wear thin white socks, meant to suggest walking barefoot. Actually
walking barefoot is frowned upon. The storm sheets the road with a quarter inch
of running water, our socks trap water like wetsuits. My feet embrace asphalt,
concrete, tile, the unexpected calm of a street marking underfoot.
Passing from room to
room in the crematorium. The decorations suggest politely nondenominational
worship, but the organization of the space makes us feel like witnesses to an
execution. The final passage is an architectural joke. The coffin rolls across
a bare courtyard on an automated forklift, straight Amazon’s wet dreams. My
mum’s last sight of the coffin came as it was shunted into a steel oven,
roaring with flame.
Afterwards, the
undertakers ladle water over our hands, from a pail filled with flowers.
