A good funeral, poet/undertaker Thomas Lynch says, gets the dead where they need to go and the living where they need to be. When my husband Helmut died four years ago in the middle of the Covid pandemic, the usual mourning rituals had to be significantly modified. Not all of this was disappointing. It was a privilege for me, for example, to wash his body myself and, with the help of a son, dress him after death. The funeral service had us as a family separated into three “bubbles” but was meaningful nevertheless, as music, readings, eulogy, and homily flowed smoothly via the technological help of one of our pastors. We very much missed the physical presence and hugs of other people but, as a livestream production, it was possible for local friends and family as well as those in faraway places like Winnipeg and Paraguay to participate.
Once Helmut knew his diagnosis was probably terminal, he built his ashes box himself, of two favourite woods–maple and walnut. The plan was for cremation and then interment in a columbarium niche. The first part happened, and then four years passed with the box and ashes in the apartment with me. I didn’t mind at all, to be honest. But the time had come, and the opportunity, for the second part. This month, the whole family was together in B.C. for the wedding celebration of our daughter and her wife who were married five years ago, also during Covid, but sans the party. The couple graciously yielded a day of their celebration week for the interment of Helmut’s ashes.
I decided I wanted to walk to the cemetery and all the children and available grandchildren (some were in university classes and couldn’t come) gladly joined me. It’s about two kilometres from my apartment to the cemetery, but everyone’s fit to walk. The nearly-nine-year-old granddaughter wanted to know why we were doing this and I told her about the practice of pallbearers, about the symbolism of carrying our dead where they need to go. It took us about half an hour, down 56th Street, the main street of Tsawwassen, and whoever wished to, had their “turn with the urn.” (It was heavy!). I enjoyed this walk and the various conversations enroute, this carrying of our husband, father, father-in-law, grandfather at the pace of our feet.
A granddaughter takes her turn.
At the cemetery, we gathered under a canopy. I shared a few thoughts and memories, as did others, the granddaughters read some selected scripture texts, we spoke a litany of commital together, and the three children placed the box in the niche. Then the cemeterian came and closed the niche and placed the plaque over it. It felt emotional for many of us, but good.
I’ve startled a few people already with the photo of the niche plaque, because my name is also there. Please don’t be, it’s what my parents did with their cemetery stone, and it feels perfectly comfortable for ours. A niche has room for two “urns” and it’s where my cremains will go as well. Whenever; year only to be added.
After the ceremony, we gathered at the home of the oldest son and family, not far from the cemetery. Since I’d baked cinnamon buns for our lunch together and since I needed to be alone for a bit after the interment, I walked back down 56th Street, just me this time, and that felt necessary and symbolic too, and I picked up the pans of buns and brought them to the house in the car. We had a lovely day together, all of us gradually turning our thoughts to the upcoming marriage celebration. (Which turned out to be a wonderful day too.)
Borrowing Bones 