Post 1: Saba's Funeral

         We arrived and she welcomed us into her home.  She had been crying; we could tell.  The rest of the family arrived over the next few hours and we sat and socialized.  A man entered whom I did not recognize.  He was there to tell us what was planned for tomorrow: the day of the funeral.

         We sat in the back room all huddled together.  Some of us were crying already.  She wasn’t yet.  I watched as they went through the traditional ceremonies: my dad ripped Saba’s tie (he was wearing it) but my grandma, she ripped the black cloth that had been given to her.  They would never throw these things away.  Tradition.
         It was time.  Grammy leading, we entered the sanctuary.  In it, sat 3,000 people, there to comfort us.  They were there for closure.  They were there for her; we all were.
         The eulogies began (there were seven total) and tears started streaming down her face.  Hour after hour, we sat there listening to what they had to say about him.  It was all an understatement.  My saba was an amazing man, and no words could express that.
         It was my brother’s turn.  Of all the cousins, he had been chosen.  He was the one with the closest link to Saba.  He didn’t talk for long, maybe ten minutes at most.  But what he had to say was the most important, most meaningful thing we had heard all day.
         Towards the end, he began to weep.  My brother!  Crying?  It was unheard of!  Here he was, in front of 2,500 people. (Many people had left, but the people who needed to hear it were still there).  Here he was, the one person who had tried for so long to not show weakness or emotion.  Here he was, crying.  In front of 2,500 people.  But right now, being here, that didn't matter at all to him.
         It meant the world.  When he returned to his seat, we surrounded him, congratulated him, comforted him.

         At the cemetery, we shoveled in the dirt.  She did all three of hers with the back side of the shovel.  Tradition.  It was to show our reluctance to let go.  Symbolism.  The mud made it difficult; I could barely do one scoop backwards, but I managed.  My cousin, Josh, tossed in a note.  He needed that last goodbye.  Symbolism.  I, being the youngest cousin, grandchild, was told that I was to keep and tell all the stories of my saba.  Tradition.  There were so many, but others wold help me.  I just knew it.

         Back at home, we sat Shiva for the week.  Tradition.  I couldn't stay at home this week, but I came back every day for the service.  We covered the mirrors, all of them.  Tradition.  People would come over every night.  We, with them, would pray.  Tradition.  They wore the black cloths they had ripped; the tie.  Tradition.  They brought us food so we could focus on what really mattered: Saba.  Tradition.  People would apologize: "I'm sorry." "I'm so sorry for your loss."  Nothing.  This isn't about me.  Don't be sorry.  Don't be sorry!  Be glad that he had a long, fulfilling life.  He died doing something that he loved.  Isn't that good enough?  He had said his last goodbyes.  He had moved on.  So shouldn't we do him that one last favor and do the same?  And if not for him, then for us.


Sadness.  Closure.  Symbolism.  Tradition.  Here.  Gone.  Nothing.