I hate funerals, always have. The somberness that underlies every moment, seeing third cousins and family friends whom I never knew ceremonially passed on to the grave. I am like my father in that way, not one for ceremonies, rituals, or any event of the like. However, this was different, with vision blurred by tears that stream with an annoying consistency, and men and women in black dress offering the small weight of their condolences. Atop the portrait pedestal sits the likeness of my grandfather, the wrinkles that define his face at rest, the ends of his lips curved slightly into a grin that was more present than absent in life. His face bares small gray hairs which aggregate to form something resembling a mustache. My Papa.
I sit in the church that he once led, its congregation now leading him into the afterlife. The venue reeks of bareness, white walls and white floors adorned only by painted portraits of past pastors, now in spiritual attendance to honor the passing of their peer. It is hot. My palms are sweaty and my simple, black suit is an uncomfortable fit. Its shoulders bare down hard on my scrawny frame as its wrists suffocate the movement of my thin hands. There are many people here, as “many” goes for the small town of Martinsville, Virginia. Most of them are strangers to me, but I’m sure Papa would greet them all with a kind and raspy “Hey there!” as his bony fingers reached out for a handshake or hug, thanking them for coming to his special day. His greetings were always kind, no matter the recipient. They all must’ve known him well. I wonder if I, his own grandson, seized the opportunity to know him well enough.
I walk to see him as the procession begins. The pianist plays a slow tune, each note hitting heavily, in sync with the slog of my steps. The man of the hour is laid peacefully in his casket. He looks sharp, his colorful tie snug around the neck, his silver gray hair combed back as he always wore it. His own suit fits tight and is a worthy suit to be buried in. This is the legacy of “James E. Millner,” the name I now carry. My suit is not so uncomfortable anymore.
I take my seat among the metal chairs, organized loosely in rows. Members of both sides of my family are here and I’m eased by their presence. Living a great distance away from your extended family doesn’t allow for quality, family time on a consistent basis. Things get in the way: school, work, sports, busyness. I want those days back, to have maybe abandoned the responsibilities of home just for a short while, just to have spent more time with Papa.
The time has come for praise and worship. Music blares from the visiting band as the master’s exhibit their mastery, playing each tune with a precision that has been sharpened over years and years. Sweat beads from their foreheads. Their fat thumbs move along their brass instruments, inseparable from the rhythm their tools of music create. Women in church hats raise their hands to the heavens and let free cries of spiritual voice. I sit in my second row seat, staring into the floor, still processing the loss and what takes place around me. Why is there so much joy here? These men play their instruments, their songs, as if birth, not death, were the reason we gathered here today. As the performance continues, the lead singer only grows more bold; beckoning the crowd to stand up, clap, dance, anything the holy ghost compelled their body to partake in. And they respond. Heels and suede collide with the hard floor beneath. I continue to stare at the floor, now vibrating from the action that surrounds me. So neat and intricate, its gray and black specks contained between the outer edges of each tile. Each tile, neatly placed next to the other, like the checkerboard Papa and I use to play on. He was always black, me red, but I found him moving red chips on more than one occasion when he thought I wasn’t looking. However, as I grew older and my mind quicker, Papa’s began to slow.
“Naw, Papa can’t play today, son,” my Dad would tell me, his tone laced with the light assertiveness of a father’s protective son, roles now reversed. I would sulk and wander off down the creaky hallway of my grandparents old house to find some other form of stimulation, a boy who thought time stood still for everyone but him. Here, now, I wish it did.
My father’s aura played out like this on many occasion, often ruining the good time I hoped to have. There were times for fun, of course, but the line defining work and play was drawn in staunch black ink. Admittedly, it was usually for the better, as most parents’ decisions are that lie in contrast to their child’s desire, even more so with my father and I. He would portray a rigid visage, giving little to no hint as to what thoughts and feelings lay beyond, and instruct me to do what he thought best, love at the root of his strictness.
I see that rigidness in his face now: the wrinkles that define his face at rest, the ends of lips curved slightly into an ambiguous frown. His face bares the tracks of tears that took their time descending down his clean shaven face and others that will soon follow. He is emotional but still a man and for that he is stone, his hands held taut together behind his waist anchoring his arms, his shoulders shown broad as the man of the family should. However, I see my own sadness in his eyes and mine deepens further. He is a son with three sisters and a mother but no longer a father, the man who taught him everything he knows and who now passes that knowledge on to me.
The pandemonium around me conflicts with my own heart. I cry and cry more, only to be bumped by a man who has surely left his body to the influence of the song along with a woman screaming behind me who has just lost herself to the power of the holy ghost. I wipe my eyes and find my father again between the standing bodies in front of me. Dance! Dance! Our performer grips the wired microphone and beckons again.
My father suddenly responds, breaking his statuary pose and stepping out from his seat into the aisle before him. He shakes off the clutches of death and loss seeping into his soul and moves to the rhythm. Each step is accompanied by a powerful clap from his thick, brown hands. The attendees have now directed their attention to him as if this were some scheduled performance. They laugh and continue their praise but realize that they are the spectacle no longer. The singer in front flashes his teeth in a smile and lets his microphone rest at his hip, letting my father now carry the procession with the silent words of his dance. His dancing speaks and says many things. Each note gives him energy, power to move forward and live. The clouds reign and have decided to pour, but he has responded to its offering in dance, for the sun will shine soon. I find his face and no longer see tears. The tracks remain as well as the sadness but satisfaction accompanies them, a greater satisfaction with life’s dealings and the trajectory of time. His bodily motions are inhumane, led by some unexplainable force that has overtaken him in this moment. The music, the moment, the passing of his father is too much for him and he must shake free. He steps and steps again, his feet colliding with the solid floor in a beat. I see and understand. Papa is dancing also, in the heavens above to his son’s step. He always loved to dance. His angelic face cannot stop smiling. He laughs uncontrollably with explosive joy and is proud of his boy. I smile. I sob.
