Buried

After the funeral, there was a reception. And after the reception, there was the graveside service with just family.

 

The service itself was short. We had all said whatever it was we wanted to say at the funeral. We weren't there to talk.

We were there for some vague feeling of closure.

 

Not everyone thought it was a good idea to witness the burial, but I knew I had to be there. I had to see my grandma buried. I had to put the white rose on the casket, watch my daughters put the rose on the casket. I needed to watch the casket placed in the ground and see the dirt pile up.

The heavy machinery rolled in, dark exhaust fumes temporarily masking the scent of the hundreds of flowers that surrounded us. The workers were exact. Pour the dirt. Move the dirt around. Pour some more dirt. Tap the dirt with the backhoe. I was amazed at how one of the men was able to finesse the machine around with great precision and gentleness. The three (or maybe four?) men were respectful. Someone wondered later if they were acting differently on account of the 40 family members watching them.

No, said the chaplin. He had witnessed hundreds of burials, and those men were always the same. Respectful. Hard working. Good men, he called them.

 

They smoothed the dirt, arranged the headstone, placed the grass. Perhaps even now the lines of the sod have faded away and the grave looks as if it's always been there. Only the shiny "2009" plate will give away the newness of grief that grows with the grass.

Sydney watched the machinery, and she watched the dirt. She didn't say anything.

I held Jules the whole time, and she narrated the process. "The man is pouring dirt on Grandma," she said. "Now she can't play with us."

"No," I said. "She can't play with us."

After a second load of dirt was placed into the grave, Jules was more concerned. "They're covering her up. We need to get a shovel to get Grandma."

I cried until Jules wiped the tears off my cheeks as she said, "You're dripping all over your face, Momma."

The chaplin had told my parents that seeing the burial was important for little kids. If they walk away and the casket is still above ground they wonder what happens next. Will someone take their loved one? Will someone watch over them? Why are we leaving them there?

I didn't want my girls to wonder. I didn't want them to be afraid either. I wanted them to know that Grandma was safe. I can't speak for their experience, but they were okay when we walked away.

Watching the whole burial process was important for me. I couldn't have left my grandma until I knew she was safe. Even though I already know her soul is safe in Heaven, I still had to witness that difficult hour on Friday afternoon. For all that, though, it was awful watching the casket sink into the ground, awful watching the dirt pour in, awful to be there.

We need to get a shovel, Jules had said.

If only it was that easy.

I love you and miss you, Grams. Always.

{Photos from Sarah.}

Comments

[Margaret]

Children sometimes think it's temporary too and expect them to come back. Don't we wish!! I believe in the importance of observing the reality of death and closure it brings--but it sure is difficult. Much love.

[Marilyn]

I've been to many graveside services, but have never been to one where everyone stayed through the actual burial. Reading this, I can see how witnessing the entire process would bring a better sense of closure and clarity for kids. I'm so sorry for your loss. Hugs.

[Becca]

I have to know. What does the E in your grandma's name stand for. She was a lovely creature.

[Stephanie]

@ Becca: the E is for Eleanor.

[Karen]

I think the graveside is one of the hardest events in a death. It makes it so so so real. I can seem to pull myself through the Celebration of life service (as we call them at church) but the grave sites, I lose it. Breaks my heart to know they are no longer with us. Crying for you and for our own loses. Love you guys.

[violetismycolor]

Your post is lovely. When my kids were young, their favorite great-uncle died. I insisted on taking them out of school so they could go to the funeral. John thought it wasn't necessary but I said it was important for them to go through this process and it was going to be harder if it was a grandparent, parent, or friend. I wanted them to understand the whole process and be there to answer questions. It ended up being a good experience for us all to go through together. You did well, young mother... you did well.

[Heather Plett]

At my dad's burial, my brother insisted he was going to shovel the dirt on the coffin. He was determined to do it as a way of honouring my dad, who was a "dirt farmer" and who once said he wished he'd shoveled the dirt on his own father's casket. It didn't really appeal to me until I was doing it and suddenly it felt like the most cathartic thing in the world to be doing. I have a strong memory of that moment my siblings and mom and I all held shovels in our hands and we listened to the sound of the soil thunking on dad's coffin. In a strange way, it made it easier to connect with the fact that what we were burying was just the package that held dad, not the real dad.