Introduction
I never expected to bury Mikey. Once upon a time, a family friend assumed to be wise told me we were very lucky to be unable to tell the future. He said that if we knew what was to come, we might not be able to face it. I had, until that moment, supposed knowing outcomes would render life easier – at least you’d know whether or not you passed your chemistry final. At least you’d know if so-and-so liked you or if he was just being friendly. At least you’d know what college accepted you. You’d save yourself a lot of stress, if only you knew.
After hearing those words of wise-friend wisdom, however, I thought about some of the things in life that might have appeared scary if I could have seen them on the horizon. Would I have dreaded the year to come knowing how badly such and such relationship would end? Would I have stayed in my room, hiding from a certain class, or a certain boss? Was I lucky to not know ahead of time that my apartment would be burglarized, that our block would experience an extra-alarm fire, that one day terrorists would destroy thousands of lives in New York? I remember something of no personal significance to myself – George Harrison died only a short while before 9/11/2001. On 9/12/2001, I thought to myself how lucky he was to have left the world before such a terrible thing had happened.
I think it’s the bad things that come up and hit you in the face when you had no idea they were hovering near you - palm-open, arm extended backwards ready to strike – that sting sharpest and longest. The day of our fire was a normal day – no more annoying than any other day. The weather was no more strange or beautiful. Then, early in the morning, half of our block burned down. We met our neighbors as we gathered across the street from the blaze, shivering in the dark, affirming repeatedly how glad we were ‘everything with a heartbeat’ made it out alive. I had no idea that was going to be the day of the fire. My neighbors had no idea that was the day they’d lose their homes. The fire came to us silently, appearing at our back door as an aneurysm – shocking us out of nowhere and altering our lives. We were lucky – only the outside of our building burned. Fire-smoke entered our home, but in time it left – we kept our place to live. Our neighbors, only a few yards away, were given rubble – their homes having been burned, melted and finally drowned. Their time as our neighbors had ended, and they hadn’t even packed a suitcase or said goodbye. I think I am happier I did not know about the fire before it happened.
I did, however, think about what would happen if suddenly someday one of my friends were to pass away. Not that I wished it, but it had occurred to me such a thing could happen. I knew exactly which friend to prepare to mourn too – the one with the most hospital visits under her belt. Our friend with the sick heart. Our Girl of Numerous Operations. Our friend across the country who we all missed but who we kept in our general thoughts, and then in our specific constant thoughts when we found out about her bout with tachycardia. Someone I loved devotedly for several years, whom I’d been less close to since she moved – I thought about what it would be like to mourn her. I knew if the time ever came it would of course be nothing like what I imagined, but by thinking about the possibility I told myself I was reflecting on life’s fragility, and appreciating how lucky we are to have people in our lives we love. I cannot say I was prepared to mourn her, but I’d at least entertained the mechanics of the process in my head. You might say I braced myself for the possibility.
Instead, we buried Mikey.
It never occurred to me Michael might be afflicted with the same frail life as our uniquely-hearted friend. That would be like realizing that I myself could be suddenly killed while driving home one evening – and such a thing simply is not possible. I might be hurt, my car might even be totaled – but it is not possible I could be killed. It is simply not my time yet – I’m too young. I am still paying my student loans. I have plans this year – weddings, birthdays, a graduation. I hate my job and need to stop whining about it and find a new one – and I will, someday. I need to paint my toenails this weekend. Had I known ahead of time our friends would gather together to bury Michael on February 4th, 2004 I am not sure how I would have altered my life. I am not sure if I would have spent more mornings bounding out of bed, or if I’d have buried myself in a closet trying to extend time by blocking out the light. I’m not sure if I would have tried to spend less time with Mikey or more. I’m not sure what I would have done.
I don’t believe in god, but there is a fate or force I’ve been thanking every day I did not see this coming. I ask this same force if we could please have Michael back. I think somewhere a mistake must have been made, and I think there is a way to ask Michael himself to please don’t be dead. I can picture my asking this – oh, Michael, aww Mikey – don’t be dead. Please just don’t be dead. I know there is a way, but my mind isn’t big enough or smart enough to have figured out how yet – and I know as the sands slip away my odds of successfully having him returned lessen and lessen. But, in the meantime, I need to talk about the funeral. The important horrible funeral, where we buried our wonderful friend. I need to write this out – so I can promise I will never forget what happened that day.
The Funeral
Mark, Bill, and Mary and I drove to the synagogue early Wednesday morning to attend the service immediately preceding our friend’s burial. In keeping with Jewish custom, Michael’s funeral was held as soon as possible – he was gone less than 36 hours before the service began. As we drove it occurred to two of us – myself and Mark – that we might actually be late. We had forgotten it was a workday – time had stopped for us, and we did not consider the possibility of rush hour. As we discovered traffic we suddenly realized that oh – we might be late. The rabbi would start the service for our friend and we might not be there yet. Helplessly, we prayed to the side streets that we be able to make it on time. We sped along, foregoing the doughnuts our out-of-town friends had requested. We were thoughtless, tardy hosts.
We arrived at the synagogue at ten minutes before 9:00 a.m., and found many other mourners already packed into the building. The service started a little late anyway, to accommodate the people who just kept coming in. Even friends of our friends arrived – people who only knew Michael through group gatherings, parties and dinners and the like. We were later told at least one high school teacher of Mikey’s was there, sitting in the aisles alongside our dead friend's current (former?) coworkers. So many people were at his funeral – so many people faced with the loss of someone so good. We stood in the back, used the wall for support, and cried. We saw the closed casket and we cried – we cried again when we looked at each other. We cried softly if not silently, so as to not disrupt the occasion’s solemn air. We tried to cry dignified, in honor of Mikey.
His family entered, and shattered the silence of our tears. His family wailed and sobbed, ripped open by their sudden, shocking loss. They moved as a unit, grabbing on to each other in order to not dissolve altogether. I cried as I listened to his family mourn, as I heard their keened sadness. I thought once maybe the rabbi would stop talking for a minute or two to give Michael’s family a chance to compose themselves – she did not. I realize how stupid a thought that was.
After the funeral service at the synagogue, we trudged back out to our cars and lined up for the procession to the cemetery. So many cars filed in, each marking at least one life damaged by the accident that ended Michael’s time with us. As we drove to the cemetery other motorists with no idea of their actions pulled in to our line, separating us from each other. Mark drove slowly to allow Sameer time to follow us through red lights – but we often felt as though we might lose him, and therefore not see him at the cemetery. Many of us did not know where we were headed, and couldn’t understand how someone could be so selfish as to try and keep us from our friend’s grave. How can people in this day and age fail to respect a funeral? How could they be so rude?
Finally, thankfully, we all arrived and gathered by the gravesite. Many of our group of friends carried Mikey’s casket from the hearse. Although I know it is an honor to be a pallbearer, it is not an honor I could have borne – I cannot imagine being chosen to carry my friend to the grave. I could not have done it. I think Mikey would have understood.
A kaddish was said, special prayers for Michael and his family. The prayers were said in Hebrew, but the rabbi was kind and explained what was happening so those of different religions understood what was being done. Then, as is tradition, his family left the gravesite. Those of us who stayed behind all took part in burying Michael Adam Massing.
As is tradition, each person who remained at the gravesite lowered three shovel-fulls of dirt onto Michael’s coffin. This is considered the final mikvah one person can perform for another – for there is no way this act can ever be repaid. I understand the logic behind this, but don’t necessarily believe it true. Not in this case. I performed no kindness for Mikey – I did nothing he would not have weepingly done for me, for any of us. I performed this act selfishly, grasping at the tradition and trying to find some solace in the ritual. I shoveled three small piles of dirt and sand onto Mikey because I loved him, and could not ever repay him for all of the times he attended my parties, smiled at me, hugged me or made me laugh. What I did was not a favor – it was a torture and an honor. As I shoveled earth on top of my friend, I physically, symbolically, said goodbye.
As I approached the small urn of sand (there were two urns of sand as well and two shovels for the loose dirt) I thought to myself how I would appear to an observer as I lifted then lowered my sand. I thought that if I were a director I would expect the perfect scene to show a person breaking down just a little more with each shovel-full, until the final batch of sand found me sobbing, barely able to cope with the loss of my friend. I thought this would make a poignant scene, an appropriately sad gravesite picture.
Before I touched the small silver shovel my tears started, and I blubbered like a child as I went about the task. As I approached the urn I saw myself from outside myself, like a performer in a sad scene trying to get her movements just right. As I picked up the sand I shifted back into my own skin, and wished everyone would go away. I thought others who had known Mike better, who were related to him, might think: who was this person crying so openly for someone they had loved? How dare she carry on at this burial? I sobbed and choked on my sobs and gasped heaving clumsy sighs. I stared at the sand, never at the casket. I could not see anything but water by my third shovel-full, and threw my sand mechanically towards the ground. I replaced the silver spade in the urn with as much care as I could, took a step backwards then stood there rigid, waiting for Mark to complete his turn so we could walk away together. As I breathed I heard him crying, lowering sand once, twice, three times on to the wooden box that held our friend.
We were among the first to bury Mikey. We began a line and caught our friends who took their turns after us, holding them as they choked and cried and shivered against the reality of never seeing him again. I watched Alicia’s face as she lowered dirt onto someone who had been one of her closest friends, and hugged her and tried to think of something to say. I hugged her wordlessly. Singly and collectively we cried and told each other how good yet awful it was to all be together like this. Hopper’s father turned to us and said, “I knew I was getting old when I stopped going to my parents’ friends’ funerals and started going to my friends’ funerals. Never in my life did I think I would go to my son’s friend’s funeral.” He was crying too.
Now it is three weeks later and sometimes I feel numb, as though I have created a scab to hide my sadness from my daily self. I am distracted by ridiculous things. My mind has admitted that my friend is – not here. Away somewhere. But he will be back eventually – maybe at a later party. Certainly in time to celebrate the New Year. Because he is not dead – that would be too sad. Surely I would continue to cry every day, were he really truly dead.
After the burial, the day went on. We ate – we drank champagne as Hopper toasted Michael: “A Life Worth Celebrating.” We talked to all of our out of town friends and drove back home at a time that felt late, late at night. We were tired, raw from the day. It had been our first funeral for one of our own – we handled ourselves as best we could. I am unrehearsed in the sudden death of the young - I am open, clumsy, weeping. I miss my friend, and can’t bear the thought of relying on heaven to bring me to him again.
My writing is finished for now, I have reached an end. I want to see my friend again - I wish upon starlight to please let us all see him again. I cannot believe this is the most futile request I've made.
@-->--
3/9/04 It's been a month and a week and a day now since Mikey died. And I'm rereading this entry. And I realize that the writing - is not very good. It is okay, but not VERY good. And I think, to make the writing better maybe I should edit some passages. But, it seems selfish and stupid to make the writing better, since it won't make what happened any different. So my decision is to leave this piece as it is. When I wrote it I was alternately crying and blank, so though it is not quality work it is honest. And more significantly it is all I can do now. So, thus is stays.
Posted by acr at February 18, 2004 07:00 PM | TrackBack