Grieving my friend, I began crashing the funerals of strangers

Sometimes the atmosphere is bittersweet, a celebration of a life well-lived. Other times, it’s heartbreakingly sad. There was the woman who’d befriend anyone; the young man with so much potential whose death was shrouded in mystery (or maybe just unspoken); a four-year-old who died after a sudden illness; the elderly man who leant over to kiss his wife’s casket before they took her out.

Maybe I watch funerals because they’re the fundamental essence of things. Through all the noise and busyness, the solid dimensions of life can be felt, like the outline of a tombstone.

While others scroll through Instagram, I look through death notices. I’m looking for the young; I want their story. An elderly death doesn’t hold much mystery, but a premature death raises questions and I need answers. How can life be cut short, suddenly, on a bright sunny day?

I visited Sarah’s grave a few months ago. It had been three years since we were in the throes of new life. I didn’t have flowers, so I took a latte and placed it on the ledge of the headstone. I wasn’t sure if I should talk to her or if that’s something they only do in movies. I wanted to tell her about our babies, who aren’t really babies anymore; what they’d been doing and learning and how they were growing. I wanted to tell her that the parenting thing had got easier since those early days. I wanted her to know that I missed her and that I wished we could hang out again.

But I didn’t. Instead, I stared at the stone with her name carved into it – and two simple years, 1982-2019. Birth and death, and a whole life inside that dash like a shooting star.

Maybe I watch funerals because they’re the fundamental essence of things. Through all the noise and busyness, the solid dimensions of life can be felt, like the outline of a tombstone. I want to trace the edges of where it begins and where it ends; feel it pulsing with a mysterious spiritual energy. If I can touch the realness of death, will I still fear it?

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Whatever psychological malady explains my funeral crashing, I know this: when the roaring confusion of life suddenly ceases, all we have is our story, a gathering of sad faces, a collection of photographs, a body inside a lonely cocoon festooned with flowers. And our life, brilliant and blazing, in the dreams of those we loved.

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