90 Days of ILP

As I wrote about earlier this week, my Great Aunt Marge passed away Sunday at the age of 86 after a three-month bout with heart failure, spinal disintegration, and old age. Yesterday I managed to make my way up from NYC to attend the funeral in Upstate NY, an event I anticipated with both reluctance and a sense of duty. As previously mentioned, I'd failed to offer any form of comfort or "final words" as she was ailing, and was racked with guilt this entire week leading up to the funeral. But somehow, the service itself seemed to absolve these sins, and I left the post-funeral reception feeling... inspired.

It's difficult to explain. For one, Catholics know a thing or two about aesthetics. Aunt Marge's funeral was no different: the altar was tastefully arranged, filled with flowers and little mementos of her long life. A choir of music-minded seniors sang uplifting standards like "Angel's Wings" and funeral-only numbers with names I have forgotten. Though the mood was solemn, the presence of members of our extended family (three of my mother's cousins flew in from around the country), and numerous neighbors and old friends were in the back made it feel more like a celebration of her long and devoted life. The pastor even took the opportunity to editorialize on the acceptability of the non-standard practice of cremation (she asked to be cremated) and expressed regret for the Church's lack of a sacrement for single people.

All in all, while I teared up each time the music resumed and I cast a glance over to the tasteful gold-hued photo portrait standing next to her box of ashes, more than anything I felt that Aunt Marge had simply moved on to another, more radiant plane of existence, and that her soul was now actively taking up residence in our memories as though she were now renting hundreds of small heavenly apartments in our lives and souls. That her suffering is over simply means that she's blasted off to a new adventure, one more beatified, glowing, and eternal, and all we have to do it close our eyes to monitor her progress in this new and blessed infinity. Aunt Marge, you will be missed, but you will live on in a thousand other ways none of us can yet conceive.

Love,
Paul