Hands On

Off to the Missouri mid lands for my sister Martha's funeral.

My dear friend Penelope helped me put together a little pamphlet for the memorial service.

There were two services going on at the funeral home that day, the old fashioned mid American send off and the hands-on, heart felt family tribute. We were the latter party.

The funeral director that we dealt with was very helpful and caring. He seemed curious about our alternative approach to honoring our dead sister and genuinely touched by our simple memorial service lead by a few words from our oldest brother and then followed by memories and thoughts from the family and friends who had gathered to honor Martha.

A friend in The Scrambled Eggs, my wonderful writing group back in CA, sent out this picture as a prompt which brought up the following piece from me about the funeral.

Hands

The soul is still in the body until it is laid in the ground. Unless we wash and oil and wrap the body, the soul will be trapped, will not leave, will not rest, my sister says. I am skeptical: her dead body is an empty vessel. How can it matter now? We five women, sisters and friends, gather in the salon just behind the funeral chapel where the memorial service will take place. The others begin tenderly washing the body of my sister, now two weeks dead, as I stand to the side, still a little in shock at my first sight of the body. Her left hand is blue with frozen blood; her vacant eyes, lids stained purple rose and thankfully closed. Her wavy red hair, streaked with silver, is clean and shiny. I touch the tips of the fine, soft strands streaming out above her head on the gurney where she lays, a waxen mound of clay, unmoving under the cold, wet cloth wiping her shoulder, her arm, her leg. We anoint the body with rose oil, on the forehead, the eyes, the lips, hands and feet, over her heart. We help the two nurses among us roll and gently lift her onto a draw sheet so that we can more easily move her over on top of the pure white muslin shroud laid out on a parallel table. We remove her worn, blue hospital gown, keeping her center covered with white towels. We slide her across in one go. Then lift her head and slip it through the neck opening in the plain chemise. We wrap layers of the thin cloth around her, which just meet, at the center of her large, rounded stomach. We tie the layers in place with strips of muslin at her ankles and waist. My sister tucks her hair into a white kerchief. I slip the pack of Skip-Bo cards that we used to play our last game behind the lopsided bow at her middle. Once she is securely swaddled, her face seems to relax, her body to lighten. Our group of women stands around her head, our clasped hands surrounding the stilled face of my youngest sister, encircling her one last time. After our family memorial service, as we walk with the simple blue coffin through the cemetery to the gravesite, I feel the bloodless hands of unquiet souls reaching out toward us, longing for a last loving touch. Hugs from CA. x0x0x0 N2