The Between Years

I'm sure his heart was in the right place.

    His extended hand ushered us into his office that offered a view of the country road that led into the parking lot. He then sat us down, offered us a beverage (hot or cold, that was up to us) and asked us about “practical matters.” The decision was up to us between a traditional burial and cremation, and he assured us that some very traditional caskets were manufactured for infants. Finally, he offered an image to make my skin crawl. I didn't like the idea of a regular burial, locked in a coffin, body rotting. I made my objection known.

    Randy squeezed my hand. “You don't want a burial; you don't have to have a burial. You make the call, anything you want.

    “ I don't want anyone looking at him either,” I said.

    “ Lots of people think of the body as a vessel and nothing more,” Roland Davis said. “Some people need to see the body because they can never let go otherwise. Other people . . . .”

    “ So it's cremation then?” Randy asked.

    “ I think so, yeah.”

    Truth is, I couldn't imagine a fate like that for my sweet little boy either, but the more I thought about it, the more it grew on me. A decision had to be made and neither was too pretty. And I decided I could well need something like this to truly be able to let go. His body wouldn't exist anymore, it would be an afterthought, and that would be the end of it.

    Never mind that I didn't want anyone else to see him. Cremation was one way of making sure that never happened. Not that I didn't care about how other people grieve, but Randy and I found it hard to share our grief with everyone. So we told Roland Davis our final decision and that we would bury him in the spring.

    We decided not to have calling hours since there was no body to observe anyway. A funeral would suffice since Randy and I wouldn't put ourselves through more than we'd already endured. Though we received an outpouring of support from the community, Randy and I kept to ourselves, but we wrote thank you notes to each and every person who acknowledged us. Our house was alive with the scent of fresh flowers and cluttered with sympathy cards.

    “ You've got to grieve the normal way,” Randy's mom said. “Have an open casket, let the pain in, face the worst, and then you can put it all behind you!”

    If you ask me, Randy and I had already faced the worst. Randy told me he'd seen a dead infant as a teenager when he'd attended the calling hours for a baby who'd died of leukemia. Something about the sight struck him as much more poignant than that of adult remains. Why the parents had placed their baby's remains on display was beyond him, he said, but I suppose they had their reasons. We had ours.

    My mother wasn't just surprised at our decision, she was appalled. My mom isn't known for reserving judgment, but she certainly did her best for a woman who never misses an opportunity to opine at the masses. Since “Inconsiderate” was the strongest word she used, I decided to consider myself lucky. What is it with people and the desire to gawk at dead bodies anyway?

    Randy's father, as always, was the picture of class and warmth, and he seemed to stuff his grief into the farthest corners of his heart to support us. I suppose that comes from the number of years he spent as the head of his family. Whatever the reason, just speaking with him eased some of my burden.

    Our other relatives were a touch too dramatic for my liking. Randy's aunt Lydia wouldn't stop crying and I even saw some rare emotion out of my uncle Ted. They too thought that an open casket funeral-“or calling hours for God's sake” as Ted put it-would have been more appropriate. Ultimately, they knew that Kenny was our son and they respected our wishes.

    The church funeral at St. Paul's was the one point where we'd remained traditional. I thought funeral chapels were fairly impersonal and, deep down, I expected a turnout what would be much too large for a tiny chapel. And lo and behold, the turnout didn't disappoint. We estimated about 160 people that jammed into the balcony and foyer adjacent to the church proper. When it comes to children, communities like Fort Erie showed up in droves.

    Kenny's ashes sat at the front of the church in a little wooden box because I wanted to forego the cookie jar treatment that my grandmother had endured. We decided to forego hymns, since hymns only make people cry, and we didn't want our son's funeral to be about sadness.