Wheel in the Sky

Today's title comes of course from a Journey song, appropriate since “journey” sums up the whirlwind last few days for everyone in my family.

Ever since we received the bad news on Monday of my aunt's passing, the week has been unreal, like a dream. Work was a distraction, a welcome sense of the daily and the normal, and it grounded me. Leaving early and coming home to an empty house Tuesday night, heating up dinner, then meeting my family at the funeral home was anything but routine. The room was packed, family and friends alike, all people whose lives she touched. I've never seen so many flower arrangements, and as always there were old photos. There was one amazing portrait of her that was surely done in a studio by a professional. It was a profile, set against a blue spotlight, and she looked up with an amazing nobility as she receded in to shadow. I commented on it to one of my uncles, the older brother of my mom and younger brother of the widower, and he told me his brother had taken the photo years ago, and that he used to be interested in photography. He said he went to the city a lot and shot bridges and other subject matter. Some days I feel like an outcast, and other days I find I'm more like my family than I realize. I was in college before I learned that all of the oil paintings hanging in my house had been done by my mother when she was in her twenties, and now I find out that one of my uncles dabbled in photography, as I currently do. Both of my uncles were draftsmen, working by hand to create precise engineering drawings, but I guess in some ways they were artists applying their talents where they could make a living, even if it wasn't exactly what they wanted to do. My other uncle also used to paint, although I've never seen his work.

Wakes are important not just to honor the dead, but to comfort and distract the living. So many cousins and friends and other relatives showed up to talk about old times, and keep my uncle occupied. I spoke with him about the portrait I admired, and he explained the techniques, and how my aunt was always self conscious about her chin, even when she was younger and thinner. He set up the shot specifically with her looking up, so the chin stretched out, and lit it just right. He always treated his wife like a queen, and that picture was a window into his head, to look through his eyes at her.

As I grow older, I'm starting to remember my mom's extended family, the people I see every five years or so at weddings or funerals who tell me they remember “when I was this big” and hold their hand a few feet off the floor then lie and tell me how handsome I’ve become. Occasionally I meet people I don't know, who still know me. Wednesday night's gathering included the following uncomfortable exchange with one woman:

“You're [blank]'s son, aren't you?”
“Oh..yes...h-hi how are you?”
[to husband]”This is [MCFy]. He's [blank] and [MCF]'s boy.”
[to me]”I was speaking to your mother before. She was telling me how much trouble you're having finding a good Christian mate. You know, I have a single daughter. Mind you, she's MUCH older than you; don't misunderstand what I'm saying. But she has trouble too. You know, she goes to Catholic singles nights but even there, there's nothing great.”
[inching away]“Uh, yeah, yeah it's tough out there, plus finding time with work and all.”
[taking my hand]”Yes. It's not like it used to be. My daughter is a nurse and she has no time. It IS tough out there.”
[cracking a smile and trying to lighten the tone]”Well, it's a different world.”
[taking both my hands and looking deadly serious]”But not a BETTER one. Well...well you stay strong, and hang in there, ok? You'll find love. If you want it, you'll find it. But you have to want it.”[piercing gaze]
[pulling my hands free]“Yeah, thanks. Hey, good seeing you again.”

At this point she just nodded and scrunched her face sympathetically and the husband nodded apologetically and shrugged his shoulders. I moved on to greet my godmother, cousins, and other people I actually DID know who weren't going to tell me how bad my life was because I was still single at the ripe old age of 31. When I related the tale to my mom, I learned as I suspected that she had paraphrased and embellished their earlier conversation. At most she may have said she wished they could see each other on a happier occasion than a funeral, hopefully my wedding. I doubt my mom used the specific phrase “good Christian mate”.

Thursday morning brought the biggest dose of surrealism. We arrived at the funeral home for a final, silent viewing. The previous two days were filled with laughter rather than tears, with family joking and remembering all the good times. Now there was only silence, as my aunt's sister, my Uncle, his son, and his daughter-in-law sat in the front row looking at my aunt for the last time. My aunt's sister beckoned for my mom to sit with them, and I sat in the back with my dad and my other uncle. After about half an hour the funeral director instructed us to move to our cars. My dad took my mom, and I drove my other uncle. The immediate family rode in a limo behind the hearse. I have to say that every funeral procession I ride in seems to take on less meaning for other drivers. There was a time when a row of cars following a hearse with their headlights on were respected. Now people cut in between, honk horns, and are generally rude. A friend of mine recently sent me a link in which New York was rated the most polite city in the world. I remain skeptical.

At mass, the priest said some comforting words about death being inevitable change, and that we’ll see her again. He spoke of how much she gave to the community, and I recalled all the volunteer work she did with senior citizens after she retired. I sat through the ceremony in a fog and my cousin, normally a sarcastic and confident Gary Sinisesque giant of a man, hunched at times, his usual stride broken. My uncle just looked really, really tired. After mass it was time for another procession to the cemetery, one unlike anything I've ever participated in. I've been to funerals where the cemetery was a few towns over from the church, and most of the time we do drive past the deceased's home along the way. But while the church and their home was on Long Island, the cemetery was in Queens. If I thought it was difficult keeping a procession together on the streets of Nassau County, but that was nothing compared to riding on the Northern State, Grand Central, and Jackie Robinson parkways. With each transition the etiquette of other drivers got progressively worse, and the occasional closed lane didn't help matters. I had to keep an eye on the hearse which got further and further ahead as our caravan expanded from 18 to 30 cars, as well as check my mirror occasionally to make sure I hadn't lost my father. Sometimes the hearse would disappear completely, then I'd spot it again. At one point, a few of the cars turned on their hazard lights and I did the same. It was overcast, and people couldn't be faulted for not thinking anything of daytime headlights. Of course, a few drivers caught on to the trick and turned on their flashers, strangers joining our lane to pass people in theirs. When we reached our exit, I caught a glimpse of the lead cars before a traffic light changed. A procession is allowed to go through lights, but we dared not risk it in Queens.

I kind of knew where the cemetery was, and there were still one of two cars in front of me with flashing lights. I hoped they knew where they were going. At the cemetery, we asked for directions at the front gate that led us past two other services to a chapel, and a caretaker who told us to ask someone at the front gate. By some miracle we found our party, and the service hadn't started yet. My dad started complaining as soon as he got out of the car that I shouldn't have put on the blinkers. “People are going to think you're having trouble. Why did you do that?” I argued that other people had done it and it allowed me to follow them, just as it allowed him to see me when he kept falling behind as cars cut in front of him. Then something strange happened. The guy who had been driving in front of me, a friend of my aunt and uncles, strung five words together that while they made sense alone, were foreign to me in that configuration: “You did the right thing.” We moved to the grave and final words were said. The reality I kept denying sunk in once more, my throat tightened, my lip quivered, and tears streamed down my cheeks. I pulled it together as we were each called on to walk past the grave and toss a flower.

I had a few hours still until the first of two meetings back at work, so my mom asked me to come to the restaurant for a little while, especially since it was on the way back. My dad was very grumpy about the whole driving experience, and asked one of my cousin's cousins on his mother's side how to get to the restaurant without taking any parkways. He gave good directions, and my dad followed me since I was somewhat familiar with the area, having gone to college not far from there. The route I took did lead us on to the Grand Central again for just three exits, and of course my dad complained when we finally got to the restaurant. Meanwhile I had to stop after every intersection where he caught a traffic light that I didn't. Inside the restaurant, I lost track of how many times someone said, “What happened? Did you get lost?” and I had to answer, “My dad doesn't like the parkway.” I couldn't stay for more than bread and soda, but did sit with some interesting people, including my cousin's father-in-law who had photos of his classic cars, his old college buddy, and a guy who's appeared as an extra on The Sopranos, a few cop dramas, and very nearly Spider-man 3. The rest of my afternoon was a blur. I kind of know what was said in my meetings, and I got some work done and put out a few fires that would have spread had I not tended to them, but otherwise I was useless. A run, my first visit to the gym in two days, cleared my head somewhat, and at last it was time to go home.

Does anyone else out there subscribe to the notion that bad things happen in threes? My parents always have. On Wednesday, my mom learned that a friend's husband had died, and my dad grumbled that he'd probably be the third one this time around. Driving home tonight, however, I observed three GOOD things. The first on a suburban street was a mother walking on her lawn, holding a small infant and whispering things as the wide-eyed wonder gazed around the yard and reached out a hand for something, for life. The second was the sun, making its first appearance today as it set on the horizon, turning all the clouds an amazing shade of orange. Finally, as I pulled in the driveway and started walking toward the house, there was a fluttering and I turned to see the largest, most majestic red cardinal I had ever seen in my life. She was crimson and glowing, with a regal tuft of feather on her head. She was on the fence for a second, then just as swiftly receded back into the woods behind our house, disappearing into the thick growth before I could even think of going in the house to get my camera. I walked in and told my mom what I'd just seen, and she simply nodded and said my aunt's name.

This week has been a strange journey, and the wheel keeps on turning. Thanks to all the readers who stuck with me, and offered prayers, sympathy, and good wishes. God bless.