Living across the street from a funeral parlor is a strange and interesting thing. It forces you to contemplate death maybe more often than you normally would. Most of the time it is just a big, old, beautiful gray house on the corner with a very manicured lawn. And then there are times when there are cars lining the street and you know there is a funeral going on. People in black walk in and out and to and from their cars. They stand in small groups outside and talk quietly. Sometimes they laugh, sometimes they smoke. And I always wonder who died.
I am never quite sure how to act when there is a funeral. Can I rake my leaves? Is it wrong to have Styrofoam tomb stones on the lawn on Halloween? Can my 6 year old play in the yard and make noise? Should I smile when I walk past a cluster of people dressed in black smoking cigarettes just outside the home? Or should I go the other way around the block and not walk past at all? Should I unplug my Christmas lights? Is there a funeral parlor neighbor etiquette pamphlet somewhere that I could get a hold of?
Once I saw a fight break out outside the house. Sometimes there are bagpipes and sometimes gun salutes and men in uniforms. And my little boy and I are lured outside to watch discretely, standing still, with concerned faces, on our lawn.
Today they are holding the funeral for a 19 year old Captain of his volunteer fire department. They have the road closed off, no parking signs have been staked in the ground all day, flood lights, and a fire truck with it's ladder extended, waving a huge American flag outside of the funeral home.There have been a hundred or so firemen in black uniforms standing outside for hours. First in a line, then in some kind of formation, then a crowd, then a line again. Every time I look out the window, they seem to be doing something else. I can't tell if it is the same crowd or a new one. They seem to be arriving in large groups, in buses. Where are they coming from?
For a few hours this afternoon and again hours this evening, the line and flow of people going in and out of the funeral home has been long and steady. I wonder if his parents are inside. I wonder if they have to receive all of these people and if this is all comforting to them or just exhausting.
I heard he died fighting a fire in a basement when his mask came off and no-one is sure how it happened. I think his name was Jack Rose.
There are electric signs coming in and out of town to expect delays tomorrow because of his service. Every time I see a sign or see the flood lights out the window, I think, nineteen.... only nineteen.
I was watching Joseph standing outside tonight next to Desmond, our 6 year old boy and holding Sonny, our 3 month old boy, and thinking about Jack Rose's parents. Losing a child is more than I think I could bear. I feel like I've done my time with grief in this life, losing my mother so young, but I'm sure I will have plenty more grieving to do. Few of us escape loss and grief. How very painful it is.
As I walked Desmond up to bed tonight, watching his small, shirtless back and his overgrown blond head of hair, climb the stairs in front of me, I wanted to tell him he was not allowed to become a fireman. Just you know, get a desk job. But I didn't say anything. I just ran my finger over his freckle on his smooth shoulder blade. My little boy. I do hope he grows to be an old man. That he gets to fall in love, maybe to marry and to have his own children if he wants them. To have adventures, to get gray hair and wrinkles. I hope I get to be around for a lot of it.
And my little baby boy. My fat, luscious, smiling, drooling, baby boy with his wispy hair and chubby fists. Please grow. Thrive and be well and safe. I am so nervous something will happen to him. Just live, please live. Past nineteen. Oh God, please oh please.
I can't think about it.
But the line outside. The enormous flag waving in the flood lights. Forces me to think. Nineteen.
Also, I wonder how many people have the lyrics, "Captain Jack will get you high tonight...." floating through their minds. It drifts into my mind like music in a scary movie. The tune playing tinny like a music box.
It's 9:45 and they are just lowering the ladder on their truck. The engine is running and I can hear it from inside. I suppose they will be back tomorrow. We should expect delays. I have no-where to go. I plan on being home with my two boys, safe and sound. And reveling in their company, for all that it's worth.
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