We aren't supposed to be here, today. (Reflections - Part I)

That's what the Rabbi said today. We aren't supposed to be here. We're supposed to be anywhere but here.

But we were standing in the gloriously warm sunshine, on an unusually stunning and beautiful day. The grass was bright green. The leaves were gold and amber and fire and dancing in the breeze. We were gathering together. We were unified. People from all over, all walks of life were here. It was incredible!

But, he was right. We weren't supposed to be here today. We were supposed to be at work. Playing with kids in the park. Scrambling the halls of a school somewhere. Wrestling with bundles and shopping carts at Costco. Getting our nails done. Playing squash. Going on a hayride. Flying to that very important place. Anywhere but here.

It's not that we should never be here. It's inevitable. But certainly not now. It was clearly too early. Not that there is ever a good time to say goodbye. Not that there is ever a good time to say goodbye to flesh and blood.

Nor is there ever a good time to watch a parent bury their child. A wife bury her husband while holding their infant son.

Although, tell that to that precious baby, who relished the attention, laughed with delight, clearly without comprehending the gravity of the day, and the fact it was the last time he'd be in the physical presence of his father.

His mother understood, though. From the rushed, hurried eulogy she gave, that was amazingly interesting, but difficult to understand with the speed of her speech, clearly not wanting to share these stories, and having to hurry before keening, to having to brace herself in the embrace of her older in-laws to keep upright, it was very clear she understood the gravity. Perhaps understood is the wrong word. She clearly comprehended.

You never understand something like this. There is no understanding in death. There is comprehension. There is acknowledgement. But no understanding.

It's a remarkable thing to see a boy cry past the age of being a toddler. Even when we, parents, tell our little boys it's ok to cry, society intervenes and teaches them otherwise. It's difficult to see a grown man cry. It's incomprehensible to describe what it's like, however, when you see a man your father's age sob and weep like a baby, like his grandson, in fact, bowing his head, lip quivering as a child's may when they fall and bonk their head, and weep into the arms of his living sons and daughter.

As a mother, we are the emotional center of the family. We know that we have to be strong, however, when no one else can be. And we mourn later. We weep later. At least we try. It's our job to take care of everyone else. Our children, our spouses, our parents, our friends, our guests, our... everyone. Today was no different. I watched as a mother thanked the officers that served with her son in the local coastal auxilliary who spoke at his funeral, shaking their hands, trying to be courteous and gracious. Until what was happened around her hit her, once more, and, she went from standing upright, shaking their hands from a distance, to collapsing into their strong embrace, allowing her to compose herself, sob into their uniforms, catch her breath, and continue down the crowd, attending to those that needed attending.

I felt I had to be there. I wasn't a close family friend. In fact, I hadn't seen my friend, whose brother passed away, for years. I didn't even really know her brother. I'd known of her brother. His brilliance was somewhat legendary. Of all her brothers, I had seen him the least. He didn't poke his head into her room, or try and annoy us when we were getting our homework done before "Rap with the Rabbi". But she was a good friend to me during very difficult school years for me. She helped me with homework. She never played the vicious games most of my classmates did at my expense. So how could I not attend? Besides, only 2 of us from a class of 18 people that spent 9 years of our lives together could attend. Again, how could I not? Did she recognize me? I think so. Her father didn't, but that's ok. I wasn't there to be seen or recognized or reunited. I was there to be part of the collective energy, to be another face, another body another presence to reestablish a world that seems unfair and unkind. I couldn't help but feel like an outside, though. I kept my distance. I watched. I listened.