On an autumn Friday in mid-October, we sat at our neighbor’s funeral, L wiping his eyes, me writing on a scrap of paper culled from my purse because I had forgotten my notebook. The wake the night before had been crushingingly crowded. The line to hug the new widow and shake the hands of the three middle-aged fatherless sons was out the door of the largest viewing room in the turn of the century mansion that serves as one of this town’s funeral homes. The 14 year old, the 16 year old, L and I stood in the line, bypassed the kneeler in front of the open casket, held each other as we looked at the tools of the deceased’s tailoring trade tucked into his casket. The scissors, the paint on one handle worn off by his thumb, the wooden spool of thread, down to the thimble placed on one finger, beneath the hands wrapped in the Rosary that spoke to his faith tradition. We left soon after, the mansion full of those who come to say good-bye to a man who had been a vibrant part of the life of our community. When we arrived to his funeral the next day, the church was not nearly as crowded as the funeral home we had left the night before.
The church was built in the shape of a cross, an immigrants church in our community, where the masses used to be said in Latin, and are now said in Spanish, where my Italian-American neighbor coached the CYO basketball team and recruited players for his American Legion baseball team. The players, now grown men, had been at the wake the day before, but must have been at their jobs this Friday morning. We were there early, and sat in an empty pew on the right cross beam of the sanctuary. I was aware of my husband, aware of his ongoing concern that he would be able to connect emotionally to the journey of his sister who is now in palliative care, in hospice, for her colon cancer. We sat in silence and the Presence of God was strong.
L was a “change of life” baby, his oldest sister fourteen when he was born. Her delight in this unexpected gift for her life was still evident in the stories she told me four years ago when she visited us here in New Jersey. She loves everything about her brother. And the feeling is returned fully by L; his regard and love for his sister has meant most of his vacation time has been spent in long weekends over the last few years traveling to her home in Wyoming. He has attended her big birthday bash, accompanied her to chemotherapy, waited for Way to open to talk about her illness and how much she means to him.
Besides their mutual admiration society, they also share a love of astronomy. Years ago, she taught L how to spot Pegasus in the sky, and then how to follow that to the galaxy Andromeda. On the morning after the funeral, in the crispness of fall air, with gloves and hats on, we sat on the front porch for our daily time of expectant waiting silent worship. The house of mourning across the street was silent, the shades drawn, the windows dark. We settled in, after saying hello to another neighbor and his daughter with their dog, and waited.
Fifteen minutes later, I asked L “After thoughts?”
“I woke up at 2:30 this morning. I looked outside, I always look for Pegasus, I have not been able to find it for two years. This morning, I found it.” He paused, wiped his tears, continued. “My sister taught me to find it.”
I wiped my tears, continued to listen. There were no more words, just a light wind and tears.
Four hours later, I’m on the computer, L walks down the stairs.
“I just hung up with my brother-in-law. We are going to try a phone conversation with my sister today when she is up for it. I called him, and he told me he has been calling most relatives this week, and he was so glad I called. I told him, I could not have talked to her before today. Today, for the first time, I am connected to the reality of her death. He told me that it something that will take all of us a while to get to. Can you hold our conversation in the Light?”
“Of course,” I replied, and then I thought “This is what Way open can look like.”
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