Everything about funerals makes me uneasy: you wake up to find all the black in your closet, drive out to the church, synagogue, or whatever holy place, and you are surrounded by people who look the same as you, puffy eyed and dreary. Some spiritual advisee is conducting the ceremony and gives a religious spiel, so the deceased can journey to the holy land, and maybe for ten minutes talks about the person whose death actually brought you there.
Those ten minutes are the only time I feel joy at funerals.
The ten minutes where I can feel the person who passed away. They manifest in front of my very eyes and I can see their smile and hear their warm voice. My beautiful Aunt Artie Lasorella. She was the reason we all gathered in the Mission Hills Church and cemetery. I have memories of a petite Italian woman who could make the best damn peppers and sausages I had ever had.
A woman who would feed you until you could not take any more, and would still try and feed you. A woman who in her last moments at the hospital was talking about how hot the doctor was and putting on lipstick. That was my memory of my Great Aunt Artie. The story about the religious figures and some lamb the priest was talking about did not remind me of my memories of my Auntie. My ears did perk up when he began his ten-minute speech about her.
He talked about this church and how Artie and her husband Vincent, who had passed away years earlier, were married in this exact church. My Uncle Vincent even had his funeral here. He spoke of their business and how they moved to California and started Vince’s pizza shop. These were little things I did not even know about, but I could imagine. As I stared at the giant photo of her beautiful face, for a moment I felt her sitting next to me.
The ten minutes of remembrance were over and it was back to the religious ceremony. However, when we were supposed to go up and eat the crackers and wine, my sister and I both looked at each other, hesitating and thinking the same thing. We did not want to do this and we did not want our funerals to be centered around this.
I want people to go to the beach or a beautiful forest area and have some kick ass food, sing, and dance for me. I want them to celebrate my life and look at photos of me and tell stories. I want them to remember the time my grandparents had me for the weekend and took me to the wailing wall and I literally wailed myself all day.
I want them to celebrate the books I will one day write, how in love my husband and I were, and talk about the one time I did something funny to my Grandkids. If you want to wear black, go ahead, but I want everyone to feel comfortable and come together to support and celebrate.
There will be no uneasiness, no stories of religious figures, just remembrance of my soul. My funeral won’t even be called a funeral, because of this negative connotation associated with the word, it will be called a commemoration and there will be joy.
