Signed, sealed and forgotten

"Grandpa died: September 23, 1995. I love you grandpa."

That's all the letter read. I had come across it while looking for things to take with me to the states. The text was clearly my handwriting on an A4 sheet neatly folded in four parts and put in an envelope titled: "details of grandpa's death." When I saw the letter a whole flood of memories came to me: I remembered my grandfather and how he used to be, his laughter and his ears (don't ask). I sat staring at the line of text for at least ten minutes remembering all these things, and then realized that, at the age of five, when my beloved "belelo" passed, my grief could be expressed in two words and a date, then filed away in a drawer and I could go on with my life. Was it ignorance, fear or simple pragmatism to bury such an event? Are we tactless as children or do we simply understand that grief is an inner process of which we sometimes show no sign?

When someone we care for dies we again turn to our masks and put up what my father usually refers to as "the circus". This includes buying new black suits and dresses, inviting relatives who barely knew the deceased, feeding them abundantly of course, and spending several months' salary on a wooden box which will spend the rest of eternity (hopefully) underground. We put make up on the deceased, make sure they look splendid for the occasion (after all, it is a special occasion, YOU'RE DEAD, smile!) and demand they be taken to their resting place in a Mercedes-Benz. I think now I understand why I simply chose to aknowledge the fact, write myself a reminder and move on, or rather truly grieve without asking for a german luxury sedan. We each grieve in our own way, but this being said, a funeral is no way to grieve at all in my opinion.

When my grandmother passed, our family again spent a fortune in the wake and funeral and put her to rest in the family mausoleum. Over 200 people showed up; the place gleamed with Armani and Versace from a mile away. When the Mercedes arrived in front of the mausoleum, and the service begun while the casket was being put into its spot, all the guests gathered around the priest who was beginning a prayer. It was a beautiful spring day, all the guests were in their best clothes and the last ceremony began. The priest was a young man in his late twenties and apparently reading wasn't his forte. Four out of every five words that came out of his mouth were mispronounced and made most people cringe. In the background, typical Spanish workers (i.e. tan men in their late forties with an average weight of 250 pounds, an average height of 4 feet and 90% of their body hair on their chest right next to their neck) were yelling orders back and forth while they passed the bricks they had to lay, occasionally dropping one and offering a truly respectful scene to those present when they bent down to reach for it...who need clowns when you have that?

Ironically, after tens of thousands of dollars spent on the whole thing, I don't remember where my grandmother's buried, what or where we ate, or most of the people that were there...but the worker's asscrack, oh that will stay for life.

Shortly after the funeral, my dad warned me that if he was ever buried in anything more expensive than a shoebox he would come back from the dead and beat the crap out of me...can't say I'm surprised. Actually, I would like the same thing: a handful of people in jeans around an old shoebox; I'm willing to bet that those people would remember the funeral and, more importantly, it would be meaningful.