I was expecting the commitment ceremony to be painful, but it wasn’t. We, Damon, Cylin, August, Yvette, Elsa, and I set out early because Damon wanted to stop for coffee. I was starving, so when we arrived at Kona Coffee and Tea, I asked them to buy me a bagel with salmon. I sat in the car with Elsa while they went inside. While I sat in the car waiting for the gang to come back with their food, I had the feeling of Mike’s presence, saying, ”Thank you,” with the same intensity he did when I told him I would be letting him die. It was his gratitude that overwhelmed all other feelings I might have had and made happiness my strongest.
Elijah called. Brian, Sariah, and he were already at the cemetery and wondered where we were. We were nearby, getting there on time would not be a problem. Damon plus came out with their coffees and sandwiches. My bagel was delicious.
When we arrived, I saw Brenda walking in the parking lot, but no one else. I called to her. She said Fr. Lio had two more confessions to do, and he would be out. He arrived at the gravesite right around 9:30, which was the scheduled time. Our group was just Fr. Lio, Brenda and Don, Susan, the church administrator, B., Elijah and Sariah, and the family I came with.
At the gravesite was a large pile of rock with some dirt thrown in. This is what Fr. Lio and Don had removed from the ground to make room for Mike’s burial site. B. pointed out that there were a lot of blue rocks in a pile. All rocks, every single on this island, are lava, but they are not all the same color. There are black, blue, brown, orange, and grey. I learned today that the rocks are of different densities. The blue rocks are the densest, the hardest to dig up.
Brenda talked to me about the gravestone. I had been dealing with a monument company in Hilo that wanted to charge me $7,000 for what the local granite company, Brenda and Don found, cost me $750; yes, that missing zero is accurate. The only color the local company had was black. I would like to order a brown one. I said something to Brenda about wanting to order one. She asked me if I wanted to spend $8,000. I’m not sure what she was thinking. No, I’m not planning to work with the Hilo company; I had already asked the Kona one if I could order one in brown. He said yes, but it would take a while. I’m in no hurry. I was planning to deal with the whole problem over the summer anyway.
Brenda made another suggestion. Instead of getting the stone etched with his name and dates, have a bronze plaque etched and attached to the stone monument. The etching is cheaper on the bronze than on stone, and the bronze even lasts longer. It sounds like a win/win solution—cheaper, easier, longer-lasting.
After Fr. Lio completed the words to be said over the gravesite, we all threw flowers into the open cement box, which held the box with his ashes. Fr. Lio replaced the hefty cement lid. I proposed throwing dirt on the container because I knew it to be part of the Jewish burial service. Since it hadn’t been done as part of this ceremony, I assumed it wasn’t part of the Catholic tradition. Fr. Lio said it was. We each walked up to the grave, took a handful of red dirt out of buckets, which Fr. Lio imported from I don’t know where. As we walked away, Fr. Lio and Don took turns dumping buckets of this red dirt on the grave to fill it in.
After we left the gravesite, we dropped Yvette off at her studio; she had an appointment with a client. Josh had her car to go to work because we were using the SUV, and B. was using the Toyota to pick up the kids from Hilo and drive them back right after the burial.
This is the first time I had seen her studio. She had told me that she had found this fantastic place. She hadn’t exaggerated. One woman is the primary renter, and then she rents out the other rooms to other bodyworkers. Each room is a delight. The doors on each room are those modern sliding barn doors. Every detail of the waiting room says thoughtfulness and peacefulness.
When I got home, I was exhausted. That’s the only sign of the stress of this event. We must have been home by 11:30. I slept till 1 pm. Burying him doesn’t make any real differences, but it makes an enormous difference. If nothing else, it is another step to letting him go, to completing all the actions related to his death. But no worries, I have another several years of clearing the house of his possessions. On that note, I am still not ready to clear out his aloha shirts hanging in the open closet area and turning that into a monument/reminder of Mike. No, I’m not prepared for that.
On the other hand, as I was napping, it occurred to me that I could start clearing out some of the books from the library, an action that I have been avoiding. It feels as if I am ripping something out of my body with each book I pull off the shelf to send away. The current request list consists of over 1,000 books. The first seminary only asked for 170 books. When I complete this second list, the library will look very different. I will only have 2800 books left to sort through.
I woke up in time to listen to some of my favorite Saturday NPR shows: The Moth Radio Hour, TED talks for Radio, and Selected Shorts. The first TED talk was from a woman who lost her husband, a pregnancy, and her father in one year. She was young when her husband died. People came up to her and reminded her that she would move on. She resented those words. I think there are two ways of interpreting those words, at least. She hears, “You will forget your first husband and marrying someone else.” But that’s not what it means to me. It means you will continue to exist and very literally continue moving forward, moving on. We don’t think we leave any experiences behind. Everything touches us and becomes part of us. If it had only been four years instead of forty-five years, my time with Mike would have been life-changing. Every person I have made a real connection with, whether I consciously remember them or not, is part of me. Moving on means that I continue to exist. I become something other, not that I forget Mike.
As I write, the image of refugees who are forced to flee on foot from dangerous situations came to mind. There are situations where someone dies along the way. The others in the group have to very literally move on, continue on the journey. The opposite is to get stuck in the past. I haven’t met anyone like this in my life, but I have heard stories about people whose glory days were in high school, and they don’t move on. They don’t accept and celebrate the people they became and continue to become. That’s a tragedy.
I walked Elsa while Damon called in our order for Thai food at Krua. I feel heavy. I’m not thinking particularly sad thoughts, but I am familiar with the signs of grief. It makes me very tired.
The evening ended with dinner at home with the Thai take-out and a few games of Rummikub.
Musings:
Many years ago, I thought, “For the one of the dream to live, the dreamer must die.” My ten-year-old self, sense of self, had to be let go of. I couldn’t always think of myself as that 10-year-old girl, no matter how great that year was and how many things got worse after that.
I know of a child who lost his mother when he was four. He would often say to his sister, “Let’s pretend that you’re 11 and I’m four,” their respective ages at the time of her death. It was hard to let go of. Unfortunately, to go on with our lives, we have to let go of what was and become part of what is. It’s our sense of self that we have to move on from. We have to find ourselves in the context we are currently existing in.
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