Irreverent Son

It was the night before the funeral at Evergreen Mortuary and Chapel.  There were a few of us gathered to say goodbye to mother, friend,  and aunt.  I stayed at the back of the chapel.  I could see the outline of my mother’s face.  It was distant, but so were we.

I know that it may have seemed irreverent to some that were gathered (although no one said so), but rather than shed tears at the side of my mother’s coffin I laid back and made inappropriate comments that resounded in laughter.  The thought that went through my mind as I carried on in this fashion was whether or not people actually thought I was funny, or was it just an excuse not to cry?

Only 3 people there really “knew” my mother: my two sisters and me.  And each of us had a difference of opinion as to who mother really was.  Each of us was correct, but each of us saw mother as a piece of historical fiction.  Memories of childhood differed, not because we remembered things differently, but due to our age difference we all experienced mother from a different time and place.  My two older siblings had her at a time when she had yet to become completely jaded with the idea of raising children and I had come long after the newness wore off.

But as I cut up, I realized that none of us saw our mother as a kind, loving person.  We saw her as a hermit of sorts that got angry and bitter over the 30 years since the passing of our father.  Over that time she became more secluded and private.  On the occasions that I spoke with her she insisted on repeating the same story each time we spoke.  I would have thought that it was the beginning of the Dementia that she eventually contracted, but it was many years prior and I believe just part of her dna.

My mother’s grandchildren and great grandchildren were also unaffected by my humor.  The things that came out of my mouth should have offended someone, but I fear it did not.

I did not do what I did with the intention of being hurtful or malevolent, but I know myself well enough to realize path into darkness that leads to my comfort zone in times of sadness.  It is more comfortable to pretend that nothing exists past that speck of light that we hear of so often than to imagine my mother shaking her head at me from the between spaces.

My mother will be missed by many, but maybe not the version we remember over the last period of her life, it will indeed be a previous version…which is just slightly different.