One of the messages sent to me says that the funeral was as beautiful as one can call such a sorrowful event beautiful.
After the death, there is no real time for grieving. An undertaker must be summoned, papers must be looked into, one must decided how the announcement of one’s bereavement will look like. The mind is so occupied with the order of work–one realizes this is for the last goodbye.
I didn’t want a sorrowful burial. Rather, I wanted my sons to remember the joyful moments. That we were still able to have these years together–to know the man that was their father–to be able to know what it’s like to be accepted without complaint. To say goodbye to someone who accepted every aspect of who I am–who loved his sons unreservedly.
It was a beautiful fall day. The sun came out, the weather was mild, more than 200 people showed up. My heart overflows with thanks for the messages coming from all over the world, for the chain of support that reminds me that I am not alone, that we are lifted up on the hands of those we don’t see as well as those we see.
My beloved friend calls me and tells me of the stream of support. I want to weep. Faces pass by us–old friends, new friends, neighbours who have become dearer, loved ones who become more precious–they have come to bear testimony.
My sons and I stand beside their father’s grave. I look up at the sky and watch the clouds and the changing colors of the trees. I am thankful even as I mourn.