My first funeral

So I attended my first funeral this week. It was for my childhood friend, Jackie, who passed away this month from cancer at the age of 25.

Jackie’s funeral was the first one I’ve had to attend. It was all so strange and foreign to me.

It was strange to dress up in black attire even though the event was titled his “Celebration of Life” (are we supposed to wear colours? Jackie loves orange). It was strange to pull up into the parking lot of the cemetery (someone needs to water the grass there). It was strange to sit in the church with big crosses on the wall and uncomfortable benches and nobody is talking to each other and someone’s high heels are going click clack click clack as they try to find a seat.

It was strange to listen to my friend and Jackie’s girlfriend, Fatima, give her speech on the podium as if she’s a widow. It was strange to help Jackie’s parents pass out white flowers to all the guests. It was strange – oh, so strange –  to watch the man push a wheelbarrow of dirt over to a plot of land and then proceed to fill the hole in the ground with dirt.

I wanted to scream – THAT’S MY FRIEND DOWN THERE.

But instead, I just watched as the hole filled up and was patted down into the ground as if nothing happened at all.

It was strange to watch every person place down flowers on top of that little patch of dirt, and to watch that mountain of white flowers get bigger and bigger. It was strange to line up to hug Jackie’s parents and have them smile and thank me for coming as if I was simply attending his piano recital or something. It was just one big strange and sad high school reunion of small town children who grew up and didn’t think something like this would happen to one of us.

I don’t know if I believe in all the things people believe when someone dies – stuff like they are watching you from above or they’ll be reborn and get to live a new life. A part of me believes that you just die and that’s it, and you only live in memory in the minds and hearts of the people who love you.

To me, death is final. There is no after life, no heaven or hell, no second or third life. Maybe the finale was when Jackie’s heart rate stopped in the hospice, maybe it was when the guy patted the dirt down for the last time, or maybe it’s the last time someone mentions his name.

Jackie is gone now. His memorial is over. There’s no more hospital visits, no more hospice visits, no more Whatsapp messages from him in caps lock (because he gets excited) and no more phone calls where he yells out your full name (he yells also because he gets excited).

But of course, he is not gone from our minds and our memories and maybe that’s all that matters once you die.

Sincerely, Loewe