Death

I recently saw my last name on a tombstone. In fact, I saw my last name on several tombstones while I stood in a small cemetery on the western side of My State. I did not recognize any of the names, and I certainly did not know who or what these people were when they lived. The graves, save for one, did not feature any epitaphs. The only tombstone that featured an epitaph was my grandparents' grave. It said "Parents of XXXX" and listed my dad and his four siblings. Of everything I saw that day, the epitaph was the only part that made me feel sad because my family plot will now be just another graveside where family members are buried. This will most likely be the last of my line to be buried there. My dad's sister probably won't get buried there because the only cemetery large enough to fit her is the ancient Japanese cemetery where they bury former sumo wrestlers; my dad's brother probably won't get buried there because he is filthy rich and thus will be buried in the golden cemetery you and I dare not even dream about; and my dad probably won't be buried there because I'm convinced he will forgo death and become some sort of zombie that forever haunts me.

What bothered me was I knew nothing about these dead people, some of which were only three generations removed. These people were family, and I didn't and don't know a single thing about any of them. I pieced together that one of them was a Civil War hero, or at least fought in the Civil War. It felt similar to senior year in high school when you want to go out on top and be the coolest kid your high school has ever seen. The school honors you by taking your picture and putting it in the hallway. Fast forward five years and the coolest kids now occupying the halls of your high school have no idea who you are even when they stand right in front of your picture. That feeling is strange enough without adding onto it the fact that if it weren't for the genitalia and hormones of those now gone, I wouldn't be here.

I did not know my grandmother (she whom was the center of attention on that day) well. For whatever reasons, her and I did not speak much during the last fifteen years. I always assumed it was because she spent her time on the casino floor instead of getting to know her family. Then at the funeral I saw my three cousins and one of her daughters who she maintained close contact with throughout the years. They knew her and will miss her. I did not know her and feel rather normal. Any death has its sadness. I get that. Ultimately what's sad here is that neither her nor I made any sort of effort to get to know one another after my second grade year. I could be bitter, and partially was until my cousin said he, "called her once a week if not more," to stay in touch. He tried. I didn't. All I have is the memory of me in her back car seat, stuffed full of Godfather's Pizza, and her telling me, "I'm never letting you eat pizza again. You eat too much and get sick." Or the time she hugged me and said, "You used to be so fat."

Before the burial, I attended a Catholic ceremony where I honestly had no idea what was going on. I know the priest walked into the basement and said, "We're going to say three Hail Mary's and something something something." He then proceeded to say the Lord's Prayer, followed by some gibberish, followed by the Lord's Prayer, followed by some more gibberish, followed once again by the Lord's Prayer, and ending, appropriately, with some more gibberish. My theory? Catholics just make it up as they go along to make those of us who did not grow up in the church feel confused. I will say though, it was a very nice ceremony aside from the American Idol reject on the keyboard belting out hymns like banshees belt out whatever it is they belt out (I'm not sure what the technical term is; I just know it's really really loud and unpleasant).

After the ceremony, the second "burial" priest was fifteen minutes late to the burial, which gave all of us cousins who hadn't seen each other in years enough time to make awkward small talk about just how fat our fat aunt had gotten and ask each other, "Who is that?" "That's your cousin so and so." For whatever reason, this large group of living people standing on top of the graves of people bearing the same or similar names did not know each other any more than I knew Anna E. buried right below where I stood.

Before that day, I would have always said something like, "I want to be remembered; I want to be great!" Now I realize that no matter what happens, everyone is forgotten. The way I see it, only five people will ever be immortalized for good: 1) Jesus Christ-created Birkenstocks; 2) William Shakespeare-smart people will always pretend they understand what thougheth wrotest; 3) John C. Reilly-really good in Magnolia; 4) Superman-duh. 5) Larry the Cable Guy's robot-malfunctioned and killed real Larry the Cable Guy. That's an elite list that I don't see myself on anymore.

I don't know if I have a moral or a point to this blog. I don't think I do. Sometimes that's appropriate. I think I'll just stop writing for now. I think I needed to get that out of my system, it was blocking the funny.