In life, there are moments when we want to put up masks and hide our feelings. We want to show everyone else we are not easily affected by the pain of others or maybe even the pain others inflict upon us. As adults in a world surrounded by competition, we must learn to accept situations as they come with little or no sentiment. Although this is accepted by other people, I have decided over the course of events that it’s not okay to feel as though I must pretend I cannot comprehend pain and vulnerability. Crying is the truest, most honest form of communication, and it should never be held in.
At a funeral, I sat amongst my bawling friends, and I wondered if growing up, if being mature, meant I was not allowed to cry, to be outwardly angry, or express my feelings in any way that attracted attention. I wondered…but eventually, I realized some things, big or small, are worth crying over.
I have attended four funerals in the past three weeks. Two were for friends whose parents died suddenly of heart attacks. It is heartbreaking to know these teenager’s parents will never see their graduation day, their wedding day, or even their grandchildren. To these teenager’s children, “grandpa” will just be someone they see in pictures, someone they hear stories about. I cannot imagine never knowing my grandpa. Never feeling his warm hands on my cheeks or feeling that insuppressible excitement fill my chest when I see his cane come through the door. Coming to terms that these future children will never experience this is the hardest realization I have encountered, even if it was not my situation to cry over.
I sat in the middle of the funeral home, staring blankly at the grim faces around me. Being observant as usual, I studied those around me, absorbing every detail. Usually I absorb details I want to remember, it’s not that I particularly wanted to remember a wake, but I wanted to recollect reactions in case I would need them later, maybe at my parent’s funeral one day. I noticed the adults in the room were dull to the situation. They stood in groups talking about golf or recent promotions. They moved easily from social group to social group, almost blatantly avoiding the coffin in the corner. It wasn’t polite to be caught staring. They shook stiff hands with the eighteen-year-old son of the man who died and shot sympathetic looks to the rest of the family. I was positive they wanted to cry, they wanted to be angry, but not one adult had so much as a tear in her eye or a lump in her throat. The wife of the man will politely thank the guests for coming, go home, and put her oblivious children to bed. Then she will go into her bedroom she once shared with the love of her life and weep herself to sleep. If someone came in, she would hide her face and claim she’s fine. She, along with everyone else, had once learned it’s not socially acceptable to appear feeble in a public place; we must hide it until we’re in the dark, away from the prying eyes, and completely alone.
As teenagers at the wake, we were still considered kids. We were still young and hadn’t learned it wasn’t proper to completely fall apart in front of hundreds of people. We weren’t expected to be the strong ones, so we didn’t try to be. We held hands, hugged, and wiped tears from weeping faces. We sat in comforting groups on the floor so we could be physically closer to those around us. We wrapped each other in comforting embraces and massaged sweaty backs. We kicked off our shoes and laid our heads on each other’s shoulders. This wasn’t the time to worry about running mascara, wrinkled clothes or bare feet. No one would remember what we wore anyway. My group of friends was in our own bubble that night, shut off from the world that didn’t make any sense. The only thing that made sense was that we were together, and no matter how weak we were individually, together, we were strong despite our tear stained cheeks and runny noses.
I’ve realized over the past few weeks at these funerals that even the hardest person, the person with the most shells of armor, the person who seems to be untouchable and deadened to emotional situations, even that person feels hurt. The first emotion expressed by humans is fear, and it is expressed through tears. Everyone at these wakes was scared. They were scared of what the future held, of what life would be life would be like without their husband, without their father, without their son. Looking at my friend’s family, especially the father of the man who passed, I saw nothing but misery.
No father should have to carry the weight of his son down the long aisle. No teenager should be standing beside that grandfather, balancing the coffin on his not yet fully grown shoulder. Yet, we all found ourselves staring at the same unbelievable sight, two generations separated by death. Later, I saw something even more unbelievable, of all the adults there, the oldest, the man’s father, had a single tear rolling down his cheek. He didn’t wipe it away. He was no longer afraid to look at the coffin in the corner and seeing this, I knew I wouldn’t be afraid either.
At a funeral, I sat amongst my bawling friends, and I wondered if growing up, if being mature, meant I was not allowed to cry, to be outwardly angry, or express my feelings in any way that attracted attention. I wondered…but eventually, I realized some things, big or small, are worth crying over.
I have attended four funerals in the past three weeks. Two were for friends whose parents died suddenly of heart attacks. It is heartbreaking to know these teenager’s parents will never see their graduation day, their wedding day, or even their grandchildren. To these teenager’s children, “grandpa” will just be someone they see in pictures, someone they hear stories about. I cannot imagine never knowing my grandpa. Never feeling his warm hands on my cheeks or feeling that insuppressible excitement fill my chest when I see his cane come through the door. Coming to terms that these future children will never experience this is the hardest realization I have encountered, even if it was not my situation to cry over.
I sat in the middle of the funeral home, staring blankly at the grim faces around me. Being observant as usual, I studied those around me, absorbing every detail. Usually I absorb details I want to remember, it’s not that I particularly wanted to remember a wake, but I wanted to recollect reactions in case I would need them later, maybe at my parent’s funeral one day. I noticed the adults in the room were dull to the situation. They stood in groups talking about golf or recent promotions. They moved easily from social group to social group, almost blatantly avoiding the coffin in the corner. It wasn’t polite to be caught staring. They shook stiff hands with the eighteen-year-old son of the man who died and shot sympathetic looks to the rest of the family. I was positive they wanted to cry, they wanted to be angry, but not one adult had so much as a tear in her eye or a lump in her throat. The wife of the man will politely thank the guests for coming, go home, and put her oblivious children to bed. Then she will go into her bedroom she once shared with the love of her life and weep herself to sleep. If someone came in, she would hide her face and claim she’s fine. She, along with everyone else, had once learned it’s not socially acceptable to appear feeble in a public place; we must hide it until we’re in the dark, away from the prying eyes, and completely alone.
As teenagers at the wake, we were still considered kids. We were still young and hadn’t learned it wasn’t proper to completely fall apart in front of hundreds of people. We weren’t expected to be the strong ones, so we didn’t try to be. We held hands, hugged, and wiped tears from weeping faces. We sat in comforting groups on the floor so we could be physically closer to those around us. We wrapped each other in comforting embraces and massaged sweaty backs. We kicked off our shoes and laid our heads on each other’s shoulders. This wasn’t the time to worry about running mascara, wrinkled clothes or bare feet. No one would remember what we wore anyway. My group of friends was in our own bubble that night, shut off from the world that didn’t make any sense. The only thing that made sense was that we were together, and no matter how weak we were individually, together, we were strong despite our tear stained cheeks and runny noses.
I’ve realized over the past few weeks at these funerals that even the hardest person, the person with the most shells of armor, the person who seems to be untouchable and deadened to emotional situations, even that person feels hurt. The first emotion expressed by humans is fear, and it is expressed through tears. Everyone at these wakes was scared. They were scared of what the future held, of what life would be life would be like without their husband, without their father, without their son. Looking at my friend’s family, especially the father of the man who passed, I saw nothing but misery.
No father should have to carry the weight of his son down the long aisle. No teenager should be standing beside that grandfather, balancing the coffin on his not yet fully grown shoulder. Yet, we all found ourselves staring at the same unbelievable sight, two generations separated by death. Later, I saw something even more unbelievable, of all the adults there, the oldest, the man’s father, had a single tear rolling down his cheek. He didn’t wipe it away. He was no longer afraid to look at the coffin in the corner and seeing this, I knew I wouldn’t be afraid either.
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