We were stuck in traffic for nearly an hour and a half, and barely made it to the cemetery, as people were leaving. It was a beautiful cemetery, on a hill, and having, for no choice of mine, watched “the Bucket List” last night, I thought to myself, “it’s good to be buried in a place with a view”.
My three friends and I walked towards the open grave, surrounded by dozens of bouquets, where one slab of concrete had covered the lower part - where Natacha’s feet would lie.
I mechanically stood before the grave, read the Fatiha and recited a few short prayers for her soul, and for her family. The basics. And, I’ll admit, I briefly tried to squeeze a tear, as a matter of form, and when I failed I put my hands back in my pockets and admired the flower bouquets.
It hit me when I least expected it, though. The undertaker was quietly standing there with his second slab of concrete, waiting for Aurélie, the closest among us to Natacha, who was reflecting, and sobbing.
It was several minutes later, as someone suggested that we start leaving to meet the others, and Aurélie nodded in agreement, then stopped in her tracks-
“I just don’t want to leave her here by herself”.
That’s when something broke. And suddenly, the absurdity of her death, the loneliness of the grave, the undertaker closing her concrete box, and most of all the overwhelming power of Aurélie’s grief, found no better expression than tears. I just stood there, hands in my pockets, crying, for Natacha, for the tragedy of her death, for Aurélie’s sadness, for the unfairness of it all.
Even I didn’t expect that reaction. But it was her, it was a young and beautiful life, a future, all cut short for no apparent reason. And it was all of us, it was our mortality, our insignificance, the randomness of it all. The thought of her life, of my life, of what she did of hers, and me of mine, and the rainbow-coloured disk reeled faster and faster into a white blur when I, almost surprisingly, realised that - I truly felt the loss, and I honestly missed her.
I felt a friendly hand on my shoulder but didn’t turn around. I didn't for nearly another full minute. We moved to join other friends from grad school, then headed to the family’s house.
The funeral was beautiful, we were told. Speeches in four languages - a multi-ethnic dyed-in-the-wool traveller she was - and music, her selection: Gotan Project, Aimee Mann - and Amy Winehouse. At a cemetery. Weird, I know.
The home reception was lovely, the boyfriend charming, the brothers gentlemanly, the father a total papa-bear, the mother a very dignified woman in her white suit and pearl necklace. We listened to some speeches and anecdotes by friends and family, watched a photo slideshow - and I was discovering, of course, her life before I knew her, but also insights of her by her closest friends - who were almost deciphering her for the audience’s benefit.
I was getting to know her again - perhaps I was just getting to know her for the first time.
And I felt uneasy.
I was getting to know her while she wasn’t there. I felt I was chatting with her family, or browsing her photo album - without her permission. Would she have allowed me to get to know her in this fashion, to see her photos when she was 10, to hear her high school anecdotes?
The photos in particular, it felt - voyeuristic? But just being there, I was led past that shield of hers - the image she projected, the behaviour, her attitude. What right did I have to peek into her soul, if she had chosen not to let us in?
Did her death imply that her defenses were down?
I felt her so, so weak and vulnerable in her death.
This time, I only felt it when it reached the corner of my lips. Less salty than they say.
For Laura, who understands;
and for Natacha, if they have high speed internet where she is.
My three friends and I walked towards the open grave, surrounded by dozens of bouquets, where one slab of concrete had covered the lower part - where Natacha’s feet would lie.
I mechanically stood before the grave, read the Fatiha and recited a few short prayers for her soul, and for her family. The basics. And, I’ll admit, I briefly tried to squeeze a tear, as a matter of form, and when I failed I put my hands back in my pockets and admired the flower bouquets.
It hit me when I least expected it, though. The undertaker was quietly standing there with his second slab of concrete, waiting for Aurélie, the closest among us to Natacha, who was reflecting, and sobbing.
It was several minutes later, as someone suggested that we start leaving to meet the others, and Aurélie nodded in agreement, then stopped in her tracks-
“I just don’t want to leave her here by herself”.
That’s when something broke. And suddenly, the absurdity of her death, the loneliness of the grave, the undertaker closing her concrete box, and most of all the overwhelming power of Aurélie’s grief, found no better expression than tears. I just stood there, hands in my pockets, crying, for Natacha, for the tragedy of her death, for Aurélie’s sadness, for the unfairness of it all.
Even I didn’t expect that reaction. But it was her, it was a young and beautiful life, a future, all cut short for no apparent reason. And it was all of us, it was our mortality, our insignificance, the randomness of it all. The thought of her life, of my life, of what she did of hers, and me of mine, and the rainbow-coloured disk reeled faster and faster into a white blur when I, almost surprisingly, realised that - I truly felt the loss, and I honestly missed her.
I felt a friendly hand on my shoulder but didn’t turn around. I didn't for nearly another full minute. We moved to join other friends from grad school, then headed to the family’s house.
The funeral was beautiful, we were told. Speeches in four languages - a multi-ethnic dyed-in-the-wool traveller she was - and music, her selection: Gotan Project, Aimee Mann - and Amy Winehouse. At a cemetery. Weird, I know.
The home reception was lovely, the boyfriend charming, the brothers gentlemanly, the father a total papa-bear, the mother a very dignified woman in her white suit and pearl necklace. We listened to some speeches and anecdotes by friends and family, watched a photo slideshow - and I was discovering, of course, her life before I knew her, but also insights of her by her closest friends - who were almost deciphering her for the audience’s benefit.
I was getting to know her again - perhaps I was just getting to know her for the first time.
And I felt uneasy.
I was getting to know her while she wasn’t there. I felt I was chatting with her family, or browsing her photo album - without her permission. Would she have allowed me to get to know her in this fashion, to see her photos when she was 10, to hear her high school anecdotes?
The photos in particular, it felt - voyeuristic? But just being there, I was led past that shield of hers - the image she projected, the behaviour, her attitude. What right did I have to peek into her soul, if she had chosen not to let us in?
Did her death imply that her defenses were down?
I felt her so, so weak and vulnerable in her death.
This time, I only felt it when it reached the corner of my lips. Less salty than they say.
For Laura, who understands;
and for Natacha, if they have high speed internet where she is.
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