In the Box

My Aunt Nell was a very nice lady. I guess I should qualify that: I remember her as a very nice lady. She stood in stark contrast to her sister, my father's mother. That would make her my great-aunt, but that was never really an issue. She made us feel comfortable when we were with her. We referred to my grandmother Esther as "The Great Stoneface of Kansas." There wasn't a lot of play in Esther.
Nell was fun. I learned to eat carrots straight out of the ground in her tiny back yard garden. She did not insist on watching Lawrence Welk and "Hee Haw" when she as babysitting for us. It's not that she was any kind of pushover - when she needed to, she could set her jaw and let us know just how where her line was. And we respected that.
I didn't see as much of Nell after we were old enough to look after ourselves. There were still birthday cards with five dollar bills tucked inside, and a hug with a mushy kiss at the infrequent extended family gatherings. I was surprised by my father's request to attend her funeral. My father's side of the family was a little loose by design, and as I had never attended anyone's funeral, I expressed a good deal of concern about the details. My father assured me that it was a simple enough operation, just a short service, and then a trip to the cemetery - I'd been to the cemetery plenty of times. There was one thing more. He asked me, if it was necessary, to be a pallbearer.
That was the part that got my imagination going. I had never attended a funeral, but I had seen plenty on TV and movies. I knew that there were all kinds of ways for pallbearing to go awry. I told my father that my biggest fear was seeing Aunt Nell's body - especially since all of my memories of her were so active and vibrant. My father reassured me that there would be little or no reason for me to be concerned, since it was a closed-casket service and my cousin Al was almost a sure thing for the last position.
The call came on the morning of the service - Al couldn't make it. I congratulated myself for having the paranoid foresight to go over all the possible embarrassing possibilities. I dressed in what amounted to my best suit and tie, keeping in mind the somber tone with the darkest blue jacket I had and the black tie I had once worn as part of my Blues Brothers costume. When we arrived at the funeral home, my father showed me to a seat at the front in the corner where we sat with four other relatives who I remembered more by reputation than experience. True to my father's word, the casket was closed and I was free to reminisce as the minister spoke of the lively old lady that I knew. As the service concluded, my father nudged me in the ribs - it was time to wait outside with the hearse. Walking solemnly past the casket, I heard the minister say, "And if anyone would like to come up and share one last moment with Nell..."
He opened the box. The lid came open with a faint rush of air that I have imprinted on my memory as tainted with formaldehyde. There she was - or wasn't in the metaphysical sense, and I was standing right next to her. The time that it took my brain to disengage and start moving again was probably only the tiniest of seconds, but felt like days. I didn't see Aunt Nell, and eventually that was the relief. When the pallbearers were asked to come back into the chapel and carry the coffin to the hearse, I was able to do it with a marked sense of detachment. I was moving a box. It was an easy job because I had five guys to help me. I could do it with one hand.
I've been to funerals since. I've only been a pallbearer that one time. Maybe it's like jury duty - a service to your community that no one really wants to do. Many are called, but few are chosen. Lucky me.