My grandmother, sister and I have, to put it mildly, big personalities. We are not ones to go quietly into the night or morning or mid-afternoon. We love each other deeply, but even the most benign situations can lead to screaming matches, slamming doors and visits cut short. Therefore, an emotionally charged event can be a matter of national security; fighter planes are scrambled, the National Guard is organized, schools are cancelled.
When our mother passed away, my sister and I disagreed on what type of funeral service we should have for her. We were both beside ourselves with sadness and I was six weeks pregnant. I wanted something simple and most of all I wanted it to be over. My sister had slightly more grandiose plans. No, I didn’t think we could get Mahalia Jackson to sing live because I was pretty sure that she had been dead for decades. It wasn’t Imitation of Life. It was life. Our life.
We were at an impasse. So, we did what we do. We screamed at each other.
We got into a screaming match in the bathroom at the funeral home that reached DeathCom 4 levels. Evidently, we thought that the bathrooms were a soundproof chamber as we were both surprised when the compassionate and professional funeral director walked in and gently began to the delicate process of diffusing the situation. Now, we may not be afraid to throw down with each other, but neither of us wanted this kind woman to see that we were a special brand of pig-headed fools .We were both mortified when she appeared. We immediately started apologizing and yes ma’ming our asses off.
The very competent funeral director helped us come to something resembling a compromise.
Two years later, the three of us were faced with planning yet another funeral, for our little brother, Zack. Zack and I were somewhat estranged at the time of his death and this time it was my sister who was pregnant – eight and half months pregnant. I felt it was best that I stay out of the planning stages of this one.
Therefore, I stayed in Charlotte and allowed my gran and sister to plan the type of service that they wanted. They planned a lovely service for the following Friday – the day after Thanksgiving. A week before my sister’s due date.
I muddled through the week and focused on Conley. I was numb. I held it together until I would see a kid with baggy pants and a Yankees’ baseball cap and then I would cry instantly – at the mall food court, Starbucks, walking in the park with Conley.
I beat myself up for not doing more, for always assuming that we would have more time, for not sending him the letter that I wrote our mom after she died, for not being a better sister when we were younger.
That no longer mattered. I had to keep going. Just keep going.
Tony, Conley and I left for West Virginia on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. As we crossed the Virginia border I got a call from my sister’s husband. Angie was in labor and had just been admitted to the hospital.
After hours of painful labor, my nephew, Jb’eon Zachary was born. Before Zack passed away, she had planned for his middle name to be Anthony. I decided it was best to not mention the blanket I had monogrammed with J.A.B. Even at a time like that an incorrect monogram is something that I can’t really let go. I took solace in the fact that I could call him JZ, Lil’ Hova.
I jetted to the hospital the next morning but could only see him through the glass. He was absolutely beautiful. Perfect mocha skin and the most fabulous jet-black curly hair in the history of hair.
My dad, whom I hadn’t seen in 10 years, was in Angie’s room when I walked in. I was polite to him even though he was higher than the Space Needle. When I mentioned getting a cup of coffee and he almost broke his neck to get me a cup, even I had to take pity on him. When he very sadly said, I know I have no right to ask, but if you wouldn’t mind, I would love to have a picture of Conley. I gave him one.
However, once he started nodding off to the point of snoring my sister’s husband took him home. He apologized and said that he hadn’t gotten much sleep in the past week. This was probably true, but I am sure the handful of Valium didn’t hurt either.
There was no screaming match this time. Angie and I laughed and cried as we remembered stories about our baby brother. We also decided on a song that we wanted to play. A song that we were not going to mention to our grandmother. However, we didn’t know who was going to give the eulogy. I had written something about him, but didn’t feel that I could speak.
However, I eventually decided that I would do it if Angie was on board. She was. She said that a cousin of ours that was very close to Zack may want to say something too. I told her that I would arrive early and arrange everything with the funeral director.
I did. I gave him the CD with the song and told him that I was going to be speaking, and that after I was finished that this song should play. My grandmother had also picked out a song and that was going to play before I spoke. No one had confirmed that our cousin was going to speak and I did not see him in the crowd.
Therefore, I informed the funeral director that it would only be me. I took a deep breath and we entered through the special family doors and took our seats in the front row.
An eclectic crowd of Jehovah’s Witnesses, pill heads and Ph.D’s had gathered in our little powder keg.
My grandmother, with the assistance of her country music loving sister, had picked some country song that I did not recognize. I was just relieved that it was not Vince Gill’s Go Rest High on the Mountain. This is a family funeral favorite. It gets people wailing. I mean, mascara running, crumbling to the ground wailing. I couldn’t tolerate wailing on this day.
As the song ended, it was time for me to approach the podium. I wanted to vomit. I didn’t. I just kept moving. I got choked up at first, but then I looked at my gran, whom had buried a child and a grandchild in two years, my sister, whom had given birth 36 hours before, and earlier that day had her baby whisked away to a bigger hospital 90 miles away, my husband, whom had been so incredibly strong for me, my friends and family whom had left their comfortable, warm houses, their families, and driven in the snow to support me, and then I saw my girl, she was in the hall with my mother-in-law, but I caught just a glimpse of her and I knew that I would get it together.
Keep moving.
I read what I had written. I found my flow. I finished. I took my seat. The song my sister and I had chosen, Young Forever by Jay-Z started. Angie leaned over and told me that our cousin had prepared something and wanted to speak. This sent me into a momentary mental tailspin. I had a plan. I wanted to stick to the plan. No one had told me before that he wanted to speak. My mind was racing, and just as I was about to go Sargent Asshole, Tony nudged me. It was slight. He knew that I was about to flip my wig. It snapped me out of it and I said, Sure. Of course.
I got the funeral director’s attention and told him we were going to have one more speaker.
As Jay-Z was instructing to let it run, my gran reaches across my sister and her husband, slaps my knee and says, Sosha, I didn’t know that you knew music like this.
Not a word to my sister.
My cousin looks like a cross between Jerry Garcia and the WVU Mountaineer. He is super smart, a beautiful writer, and loved Zack like few others. His words were short, sweet and reverent. He even quoted scripture.
However, in the middle of his beautiful dedication I feel a finger on my shoulder. Tap. Tap. Tap.
I turn around quickly and there is my cousin’s estranged baby mama. She says that she has written something too and would like to read it. I was so shocked that I didn’t have time to silently spiral out of control about how everything was deviating from my plan. I said, Sure. Of course.
I again signaled the funeral director and told him that we had one more speaker. I assured him that this would be the last. He nodded – kindly.
My cousin finished. I was proud. He had a button down and he even had shoes on. This is not a West Virginia joke. My man eschew shoes. His handle is Barefoot Inhaler (he is not asthmatic). Therefore, it was an ultimate sign of respect that he had laced up some kicks for the service.
Estranged baby mama lurched toward the podium. I did not look at my gran, but I knew that she was giving me a Sophia Loren to Jayne Mansfield level cut-eye. As she walked toward the front dressed in a long black skirt, long black t-shirt, black Crocs and an XXL hooded Carhartt jacket, I thought, hmm, it’s as if Wednesday Addams grew up to become a lumberjack.
Wednesday stood at the lectern, sniffled, wiped her nose with her sleeve, unfolded a frayed piece of notebook paper from her jacket pocket.
She introduced herself as baby mama of baby cousin and said she loved Zack very much. She did.
She cleared her throat. She began.
Dear Zack,
The day you died, I drank a couple of beers, I got high.
Jehovah Witnesses, pill heads and PhD.’s became one. They all gasped in unison.
The day you died, I cried. And cried. And cried.
Holy moly. Is it a poem?
The day you died, I wrote this rhyme.
Oh! Not a poem. More of a rap. Taking a little liberty with the words actually rhyming. Got it.
Zack, don’t worry, I didn’t do crack. Cuz crack is whack.
I prayed that a sweet and merciful God would allow the building to spontaneously explode.
I hope that you’re with your mama, Starr. Havin’ a drink at Heaven’s bar!
And, a hush fell over the crowd.
This article was written by a guest blogger. The opinions expressed here are those of the writer and do not reflect the opinions of Bob Lacey, Sheri Lynch or the Bob & Sheri show.
Soshally Awkward
Sosha Lewis is a writer whose work has been featured in The Washington Post, Huffington Post, MUTHA Magazine and The Charlotte Observer. She writes about her sometimes wild, sometimes hilarious, sometimes heartbreaking past filled with free-lunches, a grimy sports bar, a six foot tall Albino woman who tried to save her teenage soul, felonious, drug addicted parents, an imaginary friend named Blueberry and growing up nestled in the coal-dusted mountains of West Virginia.
