The Most Lit Funeral I’ve Ever Attended

It felt like church on first Sunday. I clapped and laughed and sang and was almost a little jarred each time I remembered there was a casket in front of me. A few glances to the left would remind me of the major loss felt there. I looked at my clapping hands and leaned in to my sister’s ear, wanting someone to confirm my feelings.

“Yo. This funeral is so lit.”

“I’m sayin’!” She nodded, shouting over the music.

Gun to our heads, though, I think we all would admit to feeling the less-than-subtle joy that floated about Freeport Church of God last Saturday.  

Checking out at 101 years old, Aunt Louise left behind a legacy unlike any I’d ever seen. When asked “where are the children of Mother Morris,” six too many people raised their hands. During the service, the pastor warned the organist and band against getting people too hype because we were on a time crunch and there were nine people (nine!) scheduled to speak. The organist, with his rhinestone studded sunglasses, rebelled, slamming a few chords on the sly every now and then. And the church would shout! We just couldn’t help it. It was like cheering Aunt Louise on as she finally, finally crossed the finish line.

It was a funeral though, and it came with all the necessary requirements of being a funeral: casket, hearse, deceased, grief. One of her grandchildren broke and I caught a few tears in my lap. The chins of the choir members trembled from both harmony and heartache. I was sad for earthly and selfish things. I cried about going back to Oak Street without seeing her there. I was sad for my uncle and cousins. I was sad because that’s it for my Gram’s generation. Aunt Louise was a staple in our family, the oldest in our clan, and one of those people who was just always supposed to be there and I will miss the blessing of looking a whole century in the face.

I kissed a velvety rose that afternoon and laid it atop her casket. I pressed my hand to the cool metal and let my gesture be my final goodbye. Hers was my fifteenth funeral in twenty five years of living, yet most certainly a funeral of firsts. It was the first funeral where my jubilance actually rivaled my grief. It was the first funeral I’ve ever felt that I truly let go, knowing most assuredly that I’d see her again on the other side. It was the first funeral where I walked away reminded of who I want to be before I die, and determined to be it. Nothing like the end of someone else’s life to get you thinking of your own. Twice this quote was submitted in the remarks:

“A great soul serves everyone all the time. A great soul never dies. It brings us together again and again.” – Maya Angelou.

If I want anything out if this life before my body goes cold, it is to be regarded as (and to actually be) a great soul. And to have people reference that quote countless times at my open-mic, super lit funeral. 

Happy homegoing, Aunt Louise. Say waddup to Gram for me.