“Hello, this is Michael?” My voice was defensive.
“Hello Michael, I was just telling the nurse that
unfortunately, we just closed the Etna location. We are actually in the process
of sending letters today to those who completed their pre-need with us.”
There was a pause.
“Uh, so what do I do now? I need to get my Gram picked up,
laid out, and buried.”
“We can recommend another funeral home in the Dignity
network that’s close by.”
“Ok.” I didn’t realize Ogrodnik-Hahn had become part of a network,
although I wasn’t too surprised, since so many other mom-and-pop funeral homes
were being eaten up by large networks.
“We can recommend Healey-Hahn in Millvale or H.P. Brandt on
Perry Highway.”
“Let’s do H.P. Brandt.”
“Ok. We’ll contact them for you.”
“Thank you.”
As I said those words, my mind took me back to the meeting
Gram and I had with the funeral director at O’Grodnik-Hahn back in 2009 when she
was pre-planning and pre-paying her funeral. “I don’t like doing this,” she
said. “I don’t trust anyone. What happens if you go out of business?”
“Don’t worry ma’am, people are always going to die. Besides,
your money goes into a trust fund so it can be transferred to another funeral
home.”
As I handed the phone back to the nurse, I looked up, “You
called it, Mum.” I couldn’t help but
smile.
Who would have ever
thought this place would become a coffee shop? I thought this afternoon as I
sat down a at a table in the exact spot where my Papap Burroway was laid out
back in 1974 when I was 11. I can still remember every detail of his stiff, lifeless
body as it lay in the coffin. I never realized how broad his shoulders where.
Perhaps the navy-blue pinstripe suit brought that out. His blue shirt was crisp
and his striped tie was perfectly centered. His hands were neatly folded, and I
could see remnants of dirt under his long fingernails perhaps from the tinkering
he liked to do around the house and with his car. Or maybe it was ink from the
teletype machine he used in the print shop where he worked part time. He had so
much thick, wavy hair at 53 and only a few strands of gray. I remember, too, noticing
the bruise on the left side of his forehead that the makeup didn’t quite cover
and concluding that it was from the blood vessel that burst and killed him. It was probably hard to cover up, I
thought, if the burst was large enough to
kill him instantly.
Papap Burroway was the first death of a loved one I experienced.
But there were many more over the years. Sitting here, I see each of them: Joe,
Aunt Estelle, Uncle Eddie, Aunt Mary, Stella, Stevie, Grandma Burroway, and
many other aunts, uncles, friends, and relatives. The last time I was here was
when my Uncle Chubbs was laid out back in 2002. Pancreatic Cancer had
devoured his body and soul and he looked so small lying in that coffin. His was
one of the most difficult, but it was a relief to not see him suffer any
longer. On the last night of viewing, I stood here, in this room, in front of
everyone and read a story I wrote to honor him. I sobbed so much while reading that
it probably rendered me incomprehensible.
Today, as I sit here, I can see the caskets, the beautiful flowers
and the dimly lit torchiere lights that seemed to rise majestically from each end of every
casket. I can see the wooden, curvy-leg tables with lamps that were strategically placed between
the tall, earth tone-colored, comfy wingback chairs or at the end of the Chesterfield
or settee style sofas, each displaying a box with tissues sprouting out and
ready to soothe the tears that would inevitably fall. I smell the aroma of the
fragrant eucalyptus that is a staple in funeral floral arrangements and always
reminds me of a funeral home.
But most of all, I can see the people, the deceased, the
mourners, the visitors, the distant family members, the work friends – those who
quietly pay their respects and sneak off without much ado and those who embrace
the loved ones and spend time comforting and sharing memories. I can see the
busy-ness, the laughter over funny stories; I can see the sadness in the quiet
moments when loved ones experience, for a moment, the reality of their loss.
And I can see them light up again as another visitor steps up and gives a big
hug, offers condolences, and relives some story about the deceased. “We need to
get together during happier circumstances,” I hear repeatedly. I can see people
taking their coats off and putting their coats on. I can see it all in this
moment - in the present, but at the same time flashing before me across time -
all the deceased, all the mourners. I can see the mourners who subsequently became
the mourned. They’re here now together in this same place. I can hear the clamor
of voices, the many different conversations happening throughout the funeral
home and in the crowded hallway. I’m in the midst of a spiritual reunion of lost
loved ones that crosses over four decades. It’s confusing and it’s wonderful –
a fantasy land that I don’t’ want to leave…
“Would you like another iced tea?” The owner approached me.
“Um, no, I’m good, “ I said, startled out of my spiritual
place. “This is an interesting place. Many of my family members were laid out
here.”
“Yes, some people say they won’t come in here because it was
a funeral home.”
“Really? I’ve been dying to get here. No pun intended,” I chuckled.
“You should have a drink called ‘Death by Caffeine’ to wrap the history into
the current.”
I don’t think she was amused.
