I went to my first funeral at age 9. At least, that’s the first one I have a conscious memory of. I think that I probably attended the funerals of both my paternal grandfather and paternal grandmother, each of whom died within a few months of each other when I was 3. When I was 9, my maternal grandfather died.

He was not my mom’s actual father. Her dad had died when she was only 9. My grandmother, looking at the prospect of being a single mom of 5 kids in the 1960s soon remarried. It was my mom’s step dad that I grew up knowing as my grandfather. 

My grandfather was an old school Texas cowboy and always seemed tougher than boot leather. He could be mean, but he had a warm spot for his grandkids, especially my brother and our cousin Jason. He would take us out to the small farm he kept going well past the time most people retire, and he would occasionally try to impart wisdom about the animals and plants he grew there. Mostly, though, he just let us play. 

He smoked unfiltered Camel cigarettes. A pack a day. It was a habit he had picked up when he was about the same age I was when he died. So, while the fact that he got lung cancer wasn’t a huge surprise, the speed and efficiency it killed him with when it finally came was.

I can remember walking into the funeral home and seeing him there, laying so peacefully in the casket. That cantankerous old man was never that peaceful in real life. It all just felt so surreal to me. He was there, but he wasn’t. Present, but nowhere to be found.

The one thing I remember more than anything else was how everyone kept telling each other that he was in a “better place” now. And that he finally “found rest.” 

All I could think was that is this place was so much better and it was the place where we could truly find our rest, then why in the hell wasn’t everyone going there? Like right now? 

It sure sounded better than wearing scratchy, fancy clothes and staring at my dead Paw-paw.

I am not sure Justin gets the concept of death. I mean he knows the word, but I am not sure he can really comprehend what it means. We have told him that being dead means that someone is no longer with us. We have talked about very concrete things, like the fact that when people die they can no longer run or play or spend time with friends and family. Even with that, Justin still wants to know what it means. 

He asked me just a few weeks ago what happens when we die. I gave my usual spiel. No, he said. What happens after we die? Where do we go?

How do I explain the concept of an afterlife to an autistic 6 year old? The notion of a soul? Or do I invite complete existential dread into his life and suggest that the end is just the end, that there is nothing else? That doesn’t correspond with my beliefs (or are they just hopes?) about the afterlife. More importantly, I am not sure that is even a thought forest we need to wander into.

Because the truth is, my own thoughts on death are a lot more complex, and way more confused, than I can explain to him. I don’t know what happens when we die. None of us do. We all have ideas and theories and hypotheses. But that is all they are.

Death is the ultimate known unknown. We know that something will happen. We have no idea what it is.

So I tell him that I don’t know, I just know that eventually we all die. He considers it, and then looks at me, in his completely open way.

“Why, dad?”

“Why what, Justin?”

“Why do we have to die?”

I have been to more funerals since my grandfather died. Too many, honestly. I have been to memorial services in chapels at Fort Hood, Fort Bragg, and Fort Gordon. I have attended memorial services in Iraq and Afghanistan. I have lost friends. I have lost people that I considered my brothers. Ironically, I did not attend the funeral for my father, from whom I was estranged, or my mother, for whom I no longer had the will for connection. Sadly, I also skipped the funeral for my grandmother (who I lived with for a while in high school and who was a wonderful woman). It was the right choice for my mental health at the time, but is a decision I wish I had back.

Funerals are hard. The ones you are there for… and the ones you aren’t.

I am 50 now. And I am at the age where my contemporaries are getting sick, and getting sick with the kinds of things that you don’t come back from easily. MS. Cancer. Stroke. One of my best friends found out a few months ago that he has a heart condition that could cause his heart to just… stop. And it could happen at any time. And there really isn’t anything he can do about it. His chest holds a ticking time bomb. 

Other friends have the kinds of conditions you can’t see, but that can kill you just as quickly. Depression. Stress. Overwork. All of the bullshit that comes from being an adult these days. Responsible for yourself, your work, your life. And also your kids and increasingly, your parents. All while living in a world that sometimes feels like it is on fire - metaphorically and literally.

It feels increasingly like I am losing people all the time. And talking to my older friends, I know that I am only at the beginning of this feeling. People that are here, that have always been here, suddenly just… gone. 

And I keep asking the same questions - Justin’s questions…

Why?

Why do we die? Where do we go? What happens? How do I process this loss?

I am not afraid of death. I mean, I am not a fan of physical pain and I don’t want it to hurt if at all possible, but I am not afraid of death. I don’t feel like there is some long list of things I haven’t done, or some relationship that is in desperate need of repair. I am okay with all of the decisions that I have made that brought me to this point in my life - even the ones I wouldn’t make now. I am at peace with my life, even though my life has not been peaceful. 

What would suck about dying isn’t anything about me. It is about them. Barb. My kids. My friends. The people I would leave when I left. And what I would leave them with. 

That’s what scares me about death. The loss.

Victor Frankl said that suffering ceases to be suffering the moment it finds meaning. When you can answer the question “why” you no longer suffer. I wonder if the same is true of loss. Does it hurt less, do you feel less lonely, if you can answer the question why. 

Today is the Day of the Dead. According to some Mexican scholars, Dio de los Muertos has roots that stretch back to the Aztecs; the Catholic Church simply attached All Saint’s Day to an already thriving indigenous festival, creating the fused spectacle that exists in Mexico today. Other scholars point to the danse macabre, a European folk dance where death, represented by skull masks and skeleton costumes, danced with various groups of people, reminding us that, in the end, death comes for us all.

Regardless of where it comes from, the Day of the Dead is about remembering. It is about remembering our ancestors, our friends, the people who we have lost. It is not about answering big questions, but about holding sacred space. About keeping memory alive in our hearts.

I don’t know what will happen when I die. I just hope I am remembered.

One of Justin (and our family’s) favorite movies is Coco, a Disney movie that takes place in Mexico on Dio de los Muertos. If you haven’t seen it, I can’t recommend it enough. In the movie, our ultimate death - the end of our existence - comes not when our body expires but when we are no longer remembered. When our photo no longer makes the ofrenda. When our story is no longer told. That time comes for all of us eventually. 

The one thing that we know for sure is that we will one day die. Everything else has yet to be determined.

In the end, I think that what matters is not so much what happens when we aren’t here, and is more about what we do when we are here. The way we care for one another. The love we show ourselves, our family (of blood or of choice), and our communities. The way we connect with other people. THAT is what matters. And ironically, it is the connection that we remember. 

I don’t remember a whole lot about my grandfather. I remember his gravelly voice singing bawdy country songs. I remember his mother of pearl snap up denim shirts that he got at Bill’s Dollar Store in a pack of 3 for $10. I remember the rusted yellow Chevy truck with the 3-on-the-tree gear shift that he would never drive faster than 40 miles an hour, even on the highway. I remember the smell of cigarettes.

I remember that he made me feel safe and a little scared at the same time. If that makes any sense at all. 

I remember that he made me feel loved.

And in the end, that’s enough. Details fade. Specifics ultimately matter less than feelings. 

Good memories matter more than wealth, more than things, more than accomplishment or fame. Those all fade. They tarnish. They shift and are whim to history. Feelings aren’t.

My wish is that today you make a memory with someone you love. It won’t last forever. But it will outlast you. And that matters.

May it ever be so.