I didn't write about going to my childhood friend's father's funeral...good gah that's a horrible sentence to punctuate...when it happened because there was just SO MUCH in my head at the time.
It was the first funeral - and it was a funeral, not a memorial service - since my dad's passing. It didn't trigger anything serious, I just felt a detached sense of observance. Surely it was sad but not the overwrought Lifetime Television kind of reaction one would imagine.
As we were discussing the service at the reception, I mentioned to my friend that it was nice that he and his brother spoke. "How else would it be? He's our dad" he responded.
It made me take a step back. None of us kids spoke at my dad's memorial. The speaking was done by the Fire Department Chief and the Department Pastor. I don't know that it occurred to us to speak. A stark comparison of two families in one moment.
My dad didn't want a service. He wanted a wake, a true one with alcohol and food. I'm sure he was right irritated with the formal fire department service that was held in his honor. Tough, I think, funerals are for the living not the dead.
(here's the original post about my dad's service. Get a box of kleenex)
The most difficult was seeing my friends in pain, mourning their father. A person is so powerless in that situation, either as the griever or the consoler. Suddenly we were sixteen again, huddled together, us against the world.
Also, seeing how we have all aged, as humans are wont to do. It was a little disconcerting, as if life had suddenly been put into fast forward.
We all grow up, we all endure, we all pass. We're all in this together.
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