I haven't seen my cousin Micheal in a couple years. The last time was at my uncles house when he was up from a visit from LA. I remember feeling relieved at how easy it was to still joke with him as we all sat around playing card games.
Michael-
Nearly all of my childhood cousin memories have you in them. All the
Disney trips, coasts, and national parks. Hikes that went on for too long,
restaurants, walkie talkies. The sky and clouds you had painted on your
ceiling. New Year's Eve playing that drinking game with cider, and banging
pots and pans through grandma's
neighborhood. And I only ever watched as you all competed for longest
time to stand barefoot in a puddle of ice. Several 4th of July's sitting on the roof of your shed to watch the fireworks and then jumping off to the trampoline. But my favorite memories are
all the plays you wrote and then directed, making all of us cousins your
actors. There was that one play about the statue. And another we lit a
bunch of candles for. Recently, one evening, I was thinking specifically
of you because my oldest daughter was telling me how she was going to
make her own plays and perform them in our yard.
I didn't know at the time that that was the same evening you passed away.
I will always remember you, cousin!
Some excepts from my journal:
"I made my way to Micheal in his casket. He looked like he was 48 years
old, not 35. But they had him in a stylish suit and
jacket. They had spray painted all the flowers silver, because he loved
silver I guess. As I was looking at him my aunt Marie, his mother, came over.
"That's a picture of his dog," she said in her beautiful French accent, motioning towards a little
locket and photo attached to some silver flowers in his hands. "And
that's what I would always say to him." I looked and there was a small
piece of paper that said, "And so? I love you!" and with that Marie
burst into deep and painful sobs. My mom came over and hugged her and
cried but you could tell that Marie had gone somewhere else in her mind
and was unaware of anyone else. She ran her fingers through his hair and
stroked his face. She didn't leave his side for the rest of the night.
"I went and sat down and watched the photos and old home videos of
Micheal and other family members scroll across a large television
display. It hit me hard how little he was in all those happy, carefree
moments. Innocent and unaware of how messy and painful life can be. I
looked back over at Aunt Marie, still gently running her hands along his
cheeks, much like I do to my babies now. Mike was her baby. And there
was his body, now grown, but yet a body she had created in hers. But now
it was empty, lifeless. Dear God! I hope I never know that pain.
"It rained on our drive home.
"The next morning was the funeral. They decided they wanted to have
more of a simple graveside service. As we arrived there I understood
why- The cemetery is on the mountain side, overlooking the valley. It's
not one large plot of grass and tombstones, but slopes of green tangled
with different kinds of trees; small, intimate sanctuaries sectioned off
by paths. It was silent. It was peaceful. We found the family and
Micheal's silver coffin beneath a tall draped tree, the branches
sambaing downward, minty leaves with a calming sway."
"At
first I thought not having a super formal funeral in a building was, I
don't know, sad? But as everyone sat or stood and my uncle began the
services it became the most beautiful, raw, and heart felt
memorial I've ever been apart of. Uncle Edwin read an emotional poem he
wrote for his son. There was a violin piece. Then they opened it up for
whoever wanted to come say any words to Micheal or the family. Then my
cousin Sophia sang a song.
"Then my sister, Erin, ended with the most perfect flute
solo. Before she played she tearfully explained that she choose the song
she did because it reminded her of Micheal and it seemed like maybe it fit
his life- the ups, the downs, but the ultimate peace at the end. Then
she said, 'And I just felt like at the end of it all, he did not die
alone.'"
The poem my Uncle Edwin read:
Father, Angels,
Bless the mother who has lost her child…
Heal her hurting aching heart, and just hold her.
Give the mother peace whose child was called away…
And give her the hope in knowing…they will reunite one day.
--adapted from Angel by Thelma Smith
Michael, we love you so!
We don’t know why you had to go, but spread your wings and fly, our love…
Soar above the world, our dove…
Paint the skys as you go…
Let your brilliant
colors flow…and we’ll search those skys for your rainbow
--adapted from Christy Ann Martine
