Deviled eggs and angel food cake
12
On Easter Sunday, one week after the accident, First Congregational Church holds a memorial for dad. I wake up that morning to fat snowflakes falling from the sky. I wear a long gray skirt and a pair of Bjorn clogs and wonder if it’s appropriate. I don’t have a map for how to navigate this day. Mom encourages Eric and me to speak at the memorial so I shove a Valentine’s Day card I wrote for dad—affectionately saved on his side of the bathroom vanity—into my jacket pocket. If I can work up the courage, I will to read my thoughts to him out loud.
I walk to the front door of the church with mom and Eric at my side. Red tulips lining the path are dressed for the occasion with winter white hats. Dad loved a good paradox so the stark juxtaposition of winter and spring would’ve made him smile. Death and rebirth? Check. A memorial service on Easter Sunday? Check. Deviled eggs and angel food cake served at the repast? Check.
I feel eyes on us as we walk to the front of the congregation and take a seat. The sanctuary is large but quickly fills up with winter jackets and warm bodies. Before the memorial begins I look behind me. Dad’s life has touched so many lives that there is standing room only. Friends and acquaintances fold out into the foyer like a black river threatening to wash me away.
Our musician friends Patty and Larry begin playing a song. They call it Wings—composed after learning of dad’s sudden death. I turn my attention to the music as my eyes rest on the massive bird-of-paradise bouquets and beseech the blood-orange petals to give me flight. There are drums. Loud drums. The percussion echos through my chest and for the duration of the song thaws the iceberg in my ribcage. Goosebumps arrange themselves on my skin and threaten my unravelling. Later, I learn I wasn’t the only one gutted by the musical performance. We even receive a letter from an anonymous community member who, moved by news of the tragic death of a local surgeon, decided to attend his memorial. Wheel-chair bound, he wrote that during the song, he was certain he could fly.
Friends and acquaintances fold out into the foyer like a black river threatening to wash me away.
Dad’s younger brother rises to speak. He walks to the podium and takes a long, commanding pause of silence. He begins by saying that the day he learned of his big brother’s death, the sky was bruised purple-gray. Trying to comprehend the news, he went outside to watch the storm roll in, eventually speaking directly to the sky.
“David.” I hear him say into the microphone. His voice is somber and steady as he looks at and beyond everyone in the congregation. We are the storm cloud and somewhere within in it is his big brother.
But there’s no answer. So he calls a little louder.
“David.” His voice resonates into the mic. But it’s still not loud enough. Not for his big brother. So he tries again.
“David!” The microphone whistles with the force of his plea. But still, no reply.
Finally he shoves the microphone aside and screams at the top of his lungs. “DAAAAAAAAVVVVVVVIIIIIIIIIIIIIIDDDDDD.”
His voice bounces and echos off the walls, the ceiling, the stopped hearts. He waits for his brother’s reply. We all wait. No one dares move or breathe for what feels like an eternity. I am shaking, aching to wail, desperate to hear dad wail back. And then the sniffles begin. Stifled whimpers. We can’t suppress sadness anymore under a posture of appropriateness. What’s appropriate behavior when someone you love has just died? Dad’s brother broke the damn in all of us. Our soft, animal bodies awaken from shock and feel what is incomprehensible to feel. Death will always be incomprehensible. One minute someone is here, the next, they aren’t. But in this moment, I am certain that dad and his giant, loving presence is called into the room through our communion. We listen for him. We hold space for his reply. And while we hear nothing, we most definitely feel him — shaking his liberated Gabrielle Roth hips in every one of our bruised hearts.
My uncle’s gutted offering gives me courage to speak as long as Eric stands by my side. I don’t remember what I say but I can recall the warmth of my big brother’s presence next to me. He is suffering in his own, private way. We share a grief but it’s also vastly different. I will never be able to completely reach outside of my own story and loss to understand his unique story and loss. But we stand aside each other and stumble our way through an offering to dad.
When the two and a half hour memorial is over, we walk out to the foyer. Classmates I never thought would care stand in a receiving line. Football players, skaters, cheerleaders, the whole Breakfast Club of students are there for me and my family. I am touched by their presence. I leave the shelter of mom and Eric’s side momentarily when I spot my favorite people huddled in the corner. My ballet sisters. Juanita Makaroff, our fierce and loyal dance teacher, stands with them. Her face is soft today, an expression I’m not used to seeing. The strict ballet master gives way to a gentle, motherly protectress. She brings me into her arms and my friends pile their bodies into the warmth. A circle of long, graceful arms embrace me for a safe, comforting eternity.
This brings tears to my eyes too. Beautifully told. Fierce and full of love 💗
It touches me to see how your town came together at the memorial service. This is beautifully rendered, Kimberly, all the more so knowing that it must have been one of the hardest chapters to write. 🕊️