I received word a week ago that my cousin Johnny had died in a car accident. What had promised to be a relaxing, productive weekend was suddenly turned into a somber, muted time for my family. Despite my parents taking the boys and giving Hanna and I some baby-free time, I couldn't muster the drive to do much of anything -- even purely fun things like reading or playing video games. I emailed my team lead at work and took Monday off to attend the funeral.
That morning, Hanna got out my good (also, only) suit, dressed herself in similarly somber clothes, and we headed out to be with our family and offer what comfort we could. When we got to the funeral home, most of the family was gathered in the parking lot, waiting for the final few people to arrive. As I expected, everyone was pretty distraught; the more stoic members of the family were muted, the more emotional of us were pouring out their grief in tears. Still, it made me proud to see how much support and love was being passed around; I think we all felt as though life was trying to knock us down, but leaning on each other, we all stayed standing.
When we were all gathered and it was time to attend the private viewing, I didn't know what to say or do. I couldn't think clearly; too many thoughts and emotions were vying for my attention, destroying my clarity and focus. I took a seat beside my Aunt Carrie, held Hanna's hand, and waited while others poured out their grief in tears and wails by the casket.
As I sat thinking, music started to play over speakers tastefully hidden somewhere in the room. It started as a minor-key piano melody, something more modern than I would have expected from the funeral home, but interesting and suited to the occasion. A few bars in, however, and the piano was joined by a wall of fast power chords from heavily distorted, crunchy guitars, and were soon joined by the growling/screaming of a black metal vocalist.
Now, many (most?) people would probably believe that playing black metal at a viewing would be wildly inappropriate. Certainly I was one of the only metal fans in the family, and I doubt my 90-year old Aunt Carrie would even consider it music, much less enjoyable. But as soon as this bombastic heavy metal started playing, I could feel a grin on my face. I laughed to myself, and it was a conscious decision not to throw the horns. This was Johnny's music; it reminded me of him, and good times we'd had. I suddenly recalled that the last time we'd talked, we chatted about metal -- who we were into right now, which bands were under-rated, who was awesome and who wasn't. A little while later, I wandered around the funeral parlor and looked at the photos of Johnny that were on display. They reminded me of other good times: trips to the beach with the family, playing croquet in the front yard, clowning around with his sisters.
I have a lot of respect for the rituals and rites that humanity uses to mark noteworthy events; I think it's important to mark important times in life with rites that firm up memories, that remind us of what we have decided is important. At the same time, I seem to have this innate subversive streak that makes me laugh at how the pomp and circumstance can mask the very things that they are meant to put into relief. Listening to metal at Johnny's funeral was a fantastic reminder of that, and changed my entire attitude. I could wrap myself in melancholy, grieving for a life lost far too young -- or I could celebrate with laughter, cherishing the good times I'd be so lucky to have with my cousin.
So, this weekend I'm going to open a beer, turn on some metal, and remember all the good times. I think Johnny would approve.
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