Occasion | Laura Funk

“Would you cry at my funeral?” I am relieved to hear the words coming from someone else’s mouth instead of spewing from my own. The thought has swirled around my throbbing head more than once as “friends” and “family” seem to reject or neglect me in low moments. But today the words come from my dear Guatemalan friend as we sit in the lounge avoiding our homework.
“Of course I would cry at your funeral, when is it?” I say stupidly, unsure of the appropriate response to such a question. He grins and fumbles for the words to explain his thoughts.
“Do you ever wish you could die for a day or two, just long enough to see who would attend your funeral and what their response would be at seeing you dead? I think it would really show who your true friends are…or were. There are so many fake people in the world these days, I sometimes wonder who is sincere.” The thoughts make complete sense to me and I wonder when I became so cynical.

The next few days I find myself thinking about my friend’s words. At first I cast a skeptical eye at each friend I come in contact with wondering which ones would cry at my passing, or if some would be happy or relieved. I wondering if they really care when they say “how are you” or if it’s simply the continuation of the salutation: “Hi -- how are you.” and not actually a question. I second guess their every move, wondering if there is a selfish motive behind the hugs and compliments. More of the cynicism.

A few weeks later I attend the funeral of a neighbor. I didn’t know him very well but I find myself crying anyway. My friend’s words and my critical thoughts toward my friends begin echoing through my tears and I take an internal look at the reason for my tears. Why am I crying? I didn’t know him so it can’t be because I feel some great loss in his absence. I listen as friends and family members pay their respects, so many kind things are said of this man, so many people left behind to live without his presence. Then I realize my own selfish motives for my tears. When I die, who will there be to say such kind things of me? Will anyone really have anything to say? Will anyone cry uncontrollably for the loss of me, the way the widow and children do of this man in the casket?

I catch myself in the thought and wonder if I’ve always been so selfish. I wonder if these are the thoughts that lead me to cry at all funerals, because I do cry at all funerals. I try to think back to other funerals I’ve attended and what thoughts or feelings made me cry then. At first I think I cried out of duty. You cry at funerals, that’s just how it is. The first funeral I remember crying at was that of my great aunt when I was 10 years old. She was Catholic so the funeral was held in a large Catholic church in a language I didn’t understand and my tears that day were because the incense made my head spin and my stomach ache. The next funeral I remember was that of a child in the neighborhood that I’d babysat only weeks before he was taken in a fire. I cried for the loss of a life so young but also because I secretly wished I could have traded him places. Selfishness again.

My thoughts return to the conversation with my dear Guatemalan friend. I know I would cry at his funeral, but what would be the reason? The loss of a life so young. The realization that his kind and gentle influence would no longer be present in the world. I would cry for his family and the void that would be created there. But I would also cry for myself because I would no longer have him in my life to hold me in his arms and make me smile.
I would cry, but I would not cry for him. My beliefs held that he would be in a better place so there would be no reason to cry for his loss, only those left behind.