Life and death

A funeral service in the United States in early September, when signs of Fall, like mild chills, seep into the pores and linger for days. The words and songs replay in the mind like a broken record and you feel far from a state of resurrection. It was unlike most funeral services I attend in Guyana, where sometimes there are endless tributes in songs, poems and reminiscing, sudden outbursts, hymns and choruses in and out of tune, offerings for the servants under the spell of the doctrines and sermons of calling the living to salvation.

The Anglican Church in Maryland was packed with relatives and friends. My last grandparent to join the ancestors, my paternal grandmother, lay in the casket. She had walked the Earth for 93 years. The burial was like none I had ever witnessed. In less than an hour, the casket was lowered into the ground, sealed and covered. It felt so final; like the close of an important chapter; like warm tears falling on the grass hoping to fertilise it to instantly bloom fresh and beautiful life experiences to take away the feelings of sadness.