In Memory of Micheal

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