Smile -- Pearl Jam

[Just go ahead and listen to this song, ok?]

When we buried Uncle Jim it rained. I wore a grey turtleneck sweater and grey plaid slacks and slipped my dress shoes off and my tennis shoes on before exiting the car into the rain. That much of my memory is perfectly clear.

Uncle Jim gave us the upright piano that sat in the living room at Mom and Dad's house for years. I remember lessons during which I learned scales and simple songs in the school in Middleburg. And, later, in middle school, Mrs. Tapscott taught us to play My Heart Will Go On in the music room before school each morning. I was never really that good at piano, though.

I remember wishing it would rain at Mom's funeral. I remember thinking, if only the sky would cloud up and pour the rain--thunder, lightning and all, like the tears I couldn't bear to release. We forgot the music that day, and Uncle Scott raced to Grandpa's and back in record time to retrieve their copy. I felt bad. Wasn't I supposed to grab that from Dad's before we left? Didn't I think to myself, did we get that cd, was it in the CD player or by it? And there must have been a million other things I was doing to get myself and the girls ready for the funeral, and it just slipped my mind.

I was nervous. All I could think about was what I was going to say when I got up there. I was doing okay until I realized that Homer was speaking first and was going to make me cry before it was even my turn.

When I got up there I planned to say something like, "We wanted to share a story about Mom that was funny, but then every story we could think of was wildly inappropriate (big surprise)! And since everyone knew how much we knew Mom loved to read, and we wanted to share her favorite poem.." Then, as I began reciting The Children's Hour, I got choked up, and I saw Uncle Roger get up and make his way to me, What's he doing? And then he was there, arm around my shoulders and whispering encouraging words. I took another deep breath and continued.  When I was finished, I hurried back to my seat and completely forgot about putting the framed poem on the casket, like I meant to. After everyone had come around and hugged us all, I turned to Jamie and sobbed for the first time. I reached out to gather Addison into my arms, but she wasn't having it. I pressed my face into Jamie's chest and just let the wall down for a minute. I smeared a good amount of mascara on the front of his shirt. You really just need waterproof mascara for funerals, but that's the last thing you're thinking about when you're getting ready for one.

When we went to the cemetery, after everything was over and they'd lowered the casket, I watched some of the others throw in shovels full of dirt. But not me. I was miserably pregnant and didn't shovel any dirt myself. Some funerals end and everybody leaves before the casket is even lowered. But not us.

Back at the church there was food prepared and as I made my way along the line to fix my plate, my 3rd- and 4th-grade teacher smiled at me and said, "That was a beautiful poem you shared."

And I said, "Oh, I didn't write it," like the fucking dumbass I am. Like I write so much brilliant shit that it could be mistaken for Longfellow.

"I know," accompanied by an understanding smile. I beat a hasty retreat back to our table.

Why am I such a spaz? Four years later and I'm still bothered by my inability to say something--anything--that didn't sound stupid. Like maybe thank her for coming? Something?

But I am a spaz. I never say the right thing, and I probably never will. I guess I shouldn't worry so much about what happened four years ago, especially since I had every excuse for being awkward.

For the visitation we wore summer dresses. Mine was coral. Some of my friends came, girls I'd been friends with since elementary school. When I stood up to hug them and thank them for coming they were like, "Whoa, you're pregnant!" Apparently, when sitting, I just looked fat. It had been a few years since they'd seen me. I still smile when I think about that.

I guess the hardest part of the visitation was trying to explain things to Addison--she wanted to know, "Is that GG over there?" pointing to the casket. The simple answer, "Yes," popped out, but what was churning in my mind were all the reassuring things I'd heard throughout my life, "That's just her body, her soul is in heaven."

I had to buy shoes for Mom's funeral, too. Amy drove my car, and Jessica and I rode back to Louisville to retrieve funeral attire--or in my case, buy some because I didn't have any black maternity clothes. I told the lady who helped me find some black flats that I needed a different size because I had massive toe cleavage. She thought it was funny, but I hate toe cleavage.

It's odd, the things you remember. There's more, a lot more, but remembering and recounting is painful, so you'll just have to wait until next time.