Attend Funerals

"Attend funerals", my father always said. "You don't need invites for that. Besides, partaking in someone's sorrow is service in itself".

Jumping into a newly formed vortex of sorrow and being swept away willingly, was logic I found morbid, and difficult to comprehend. 

We'd argue a lot about this. In fact, every time there was a funeral to attend,I'd pass and he'd go with my mother. Not just for friends who were bereaved, but acquaintances - sometimes folks they'd met only in passing. I had a problem reconciling with it.Sorrow,to me, was always a personal thing. I'd hate a crowd around me if I wanted to grieve. 

"That's because you've never known grief", he countered. "Knowing there are people around you, even those remotely connected, will lift you when encompassed by gloom. It could be a hand-clasp, a hug, a word of condolence - some small gesture that will tap into the enormous reserves of strength that lie in each of us, but almost impossible to find when we feel like we're falling into an unending hole"

And so, it came to pass. Real sorrow sought me out when my superman passed on. I was there by his side when he breathed his last, but  don't remember much else. Everything was so blurred that it felt like I was repeatedly hit in the gut till I blanked out. I'd fallen into that dark, unending hole. Disoriented for 36 hours, I saw a sea of faces coming over - at home, in church and at the cemetery. There were relatives, friends, acquaintances, strangers, people calling up, and the look in each of their eyes and the the sounds in each consoling voice seemed to suggest that they were willing to shoulder some of my sorrow.

Uncle John Lazaro was one of those. I'd known his sons,Mark and Jude,  for a few years and was extremely fond of them - we'd done plays and choral shows together. I also knew the mother, Aunty Barbara, but  I'd never met the father before. 

We had just laid Dad to rest and I still had tear-stained eyes, when Uncle John walked up to me and hugged me tight while introducing himself. 

"I lost my father a long time ago, son", he said. "It's amazing how even today, every single time I feel the need for him, I still find him around. I promise you that you'll find yours too."

I clearly recall how the clouds seemed to lift and the first rays of light emerged at that moment. As days, months and years went by, I've constantly been reminded about how right Uncle Lazaro was. I've attended more funerals than weddings since then, and I've always passed on the wisdom that was handed down to me by the man. I've also added my own - that being present at a funeral is possibly the only time when one feels lighter for carrying another's burden. 

It was as recently as this morning - today is Father's Day - that I missed Dad, almost a decade after his death. 

I got reminded of how he had wanted me to write letters to him every week when I was away in a hostel. "No cards", he'd insisted, "that's someone else's idea of writing. Not yours." 

"An inland letter every Monday morning in my postbox. If there's nothing to write about, write there's nothing to write about", he'd said. 2 years away from home, and we dutifully exchanged notes about our lives every single week, in days where there were no mobile phones or e-mail.  

I wondered what I'd have written to him today. 

"Write to me your thoughts about attending funerals", I hear him say, with this unmistakably toothy grin. And I did.