The last few days have been tough for my family…the final link from the older generation passed away last week.

My great-aunt always had a smile, a dark sense of humor, and was a confidante to many.

The great thing about being part of a crazy family is that we manage to laugh at the darkest hours, always a good tool to possess given the cheesiness and money-hungry feel from funeral homes.  You hope for Michael C. Hall from Six Feet Under; you get a woman with too much hair spray and make-up, a thick accent, and a polyester suit, engrossed in a phone conversation, ignoring your tear-stained face, a dress belonging to the deceased hanging on your arm, and giving you attitude because you’re trying to get her attention.  Really?  Really.  That was the beginning when my cousins first arrived to make arrangements.  Let’s move forward in time to the wake.

A wake – we (most Caribbean islanders) are a passionate people; we scream, we cry, we faint on command, and we throw things and that’s when we’re happy.  So, when other people have quick memorial services, we prefer pulling an all-nighter with an open-casket, inviting long-lost family members, encouraging dramatic moments, and offering an unlimited supply of Cuban coffee.

At some point during wakes, a priest will come, and do his thing (I have no idea what that thing is because I grew up with an atheist father).  Our family, however, asked one of our priest-like cousins to lead the crowd in a memorial of sorts for my great-aunt; it was heart-felt, sincere, funny, sad, and great.  But apparently, no one gave the actual priest the memo that his services weren’t needed today so he came in 30 minutes later, demanding to be heard, and we all stared.  Really? Really.  That was the wake.  Now let’s move to the burial.

With most of the inner circle present, we said goodbye before the casket was closed.  It was probably the toughest moment.  My cousins went in the non-hearse vehicle while the rest of us carpooled to the cemetery.  We took the Palmetto through Hialeah, which was adorned with billboards recommending you get a derriere lift or a breast enhancement.  We all went in a procession towards the mausoleum where she would be buried with her husband.  All I could focus on were the containers of silicone that were being used to encase my great-aunt and the hydraulic lift supplying the height to the top because my great-uncle always kidded around that no one was going above him in his final resting place.  They seal her in.  They shuffle us out.  They encourage us to walk a little faster.  We get downstairs and are greeted by impatient funeral workers and the next mourning family.  Really? Really. Thanks for downplaying our grief, our reality.  Thanks for making her seem insignificant — I realize we all are in the grand scheme of things, but really?  at this moment?  Really?  Really.

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