Generations

"Snow falls... At first a few separate flakes float down slowly, one by one; then more, faster and faster, filling our eyes with dazzling, dancing whiteness. The movement is more mysterious because it is silent: dancing, wild dancing with no sound, like voiceless singing. If it made even the tiny tap of hail it would seem to fall into our world, but the silence is absolute; it is we who are walking in another world, a world in which we are ghosts. The falling flakes touch our face with unimaginable lightness and melt on the faint warmth of our blood, at once elusive and intimate."
                                                             Caryll Houselander

I went to the funeral of a childhood friend's mother today. My friend, Greg, and I were part of a very tight knit group of kids who were thick as thieves all through high school and college. Most of us still see each other, although not as consistently as we used to in our twenties and thirties.

Kids, jobs, lives lived. You know.

As teens and young adults we had many occasions to chat with each other's parents as we stopped by the house in the beginning of the evening and stumbled back in at night's end. Except for the occasional drunken and/or idiotic mishap, all of the parents seemed happy to entertain our group as we tumbled in and out like puppies from one house or another.

And as much as our own parents drove us crazy, our friend's parents delighted us in equal measure.

As we grew up and got places of our own, we saw less and less of each other's parents, but they certainly stayed with us in our minds and hearts. In fact, it was easy to catch real glimpses of them in our own behaviors as we grew older and older...and older.

Don't ever say you are not going to turn out like your mother and father. That's a bet you are sure to lose, my friend.

Greg's mom and dad, Marie and Al, were always welcoming when we were young. No matter how many times we ate them out of house and home, drank their good beer, or broke a lamp, their door stayed open.

For the most part. There were a few times a window had to be jimmied. I'm sure these were just misunderstandings.

 Over the years I have run into Marie and Al around our small town, at kid's ball games, or at various parties and functions. Each time I saw them I felt sentimentally overjoyed, a feeling that I hope was reciprocated.

Marie was a small woman, quick in movement, warm and friendly. Her character was not forceful, but more like the snowflakes described above, full of quiet and light.

A few years ago, cancer came to live with Marie. She thought she had successfully driven this wholly uninvited stranger away, but recently it crept back to stay.

And so, uncharacteristically, Marie decided to think of herself. In her very private and calm manner, she told her family she was ceasing treatment. At the age of 75, after a life spent living for others, Marie focused on herself. The last few weeks of her life, in what one would imagine to be a situation in which one has no control, Marie turned the tables and called the shots.

She went home to her little house and surrounded herself with family. She waited for her parish priest to visit and administer last rites, repeating the words as they were spoken. And a few hours after these final prayers were performed, Marie quietly, and lightly, breathed her last.

Today we laid her ashes to rest. The earthly reward for her generous heart was plain to see, as so many people attended the funeral it had to be moved from the chapel to the church. I was glad for the family to have visual proof of the character of this wife, mother, and grandmother. I was glad to have known Marie and grateful for the chance to have been a part of her life, and a friend to her family.

Just as the falling snowflakes described above, Marie's great grace touched my face with unimaginable lightness, and melted on the faint warmth of my blood.

She is a part of me now, and a part of us all.