We are all gathered to mourn her death, although I keep hearing whisperings of the word "celebrate." She was forty-three.I wish there was more substance to this memorial. The service is fleeting, ephemeral, as was her life.
Most of the time is divided between images of her projected on a screen with a classic rock song that is played twice, and reminiscences of family and friends. The stories focus less on her and more on each individual speaker. She is simply a catalyst for voices.
Her brother is publicly sobbing, grieving, but admits shame because he "knows this is supposed to be a celebration." I want to shout out to him that this is not a time to celebrate, but to mourn. I want to tell him that it is okay to cry. I want to scream at the forced happiness of all of the others. I am silent.
The chaplain bookends the images and stories with readings from the Psalms—Psalm 121 at the beginning and Psalm 23 at the end. She was not religious. This seems to be perfunctory. There is no depth to it. There is no hope in it. It "plays" as the right thing to do. It is false.
Her life was difficult. It was filled with margins: drugs, alcohol, chronic disease, lesbianism, loneliness. Her last months were challenges to her health. She was drinking again, which was worsening her illness, compromising her existence. This is truth, but nobody will speak it.
She succumbed in slumber, alone.
My heart is heavy. I know there is hope, but all I feel in this moment is a tenderness of limbs, a numbness of spirit.
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