The Bonding Power of a Funeral

Their final gift …

There is no better indicator of how fortunate, even blessed, of a life I have lived than by how few funerals I have attended.

I understand the importance of the ritual of funerals, their value not just for the loved ones who were closest to the deceased but also for anyone who knew them at all, a chances to say goodbye, a chance to remember, maybe to reflect. This does not make them, as a ritual, feel any less strange. There is nothing more intensely private than mourning, than grief, an emotion you cannot talk your way out of, one you cannot put off until you are ready for it. And yet there are, mere days after a loss you’ll never truly fully recover from, standing in front of your entire world at your worst moment. Grief is a gaping wound, an empty space that follows you around — you’re plainly blown apart. Having to pull it together, to package your private pain for public consumption, feels cruel, almost masochistic. Many years back, a friend of mine’s mother died, suddenly, way too young. I saw him at the funeral and could not believe he was able to stand, let alone talk. I kept expecting him to rip his clothes off and run howling through the street. I would not have blamed him. But he had to perform. His grief required a public airing.