And they're off.... the girl and her friends are on the bus back to camp.
Yesterday we attended a funeral. It was indescribably sad. I have so many impressions and so many thoughts, but the primary one is that we are not supposed to bury our children. There is a feeling of disbelief, of being torn out of time, of what is "supposed to be", of being thrust into some alternate, horrible and inescapable reality. A child is dead and his community has to come to terms with that.
There were hundreds of people there, spilling out of the chapel onto the grass and into the street - they had the services miked so the people outside could hear. I watched the kids hold each other and cry, and I thought to myself that their little bodies were not made to bear such grief. Not yet. Some of them were grieving so hard, it sat so heavily upon them and there was a terrible look in their eyes. Nothing can ever really make it okay for them. Only time will give them some room.
He sounds like he was a remarkable and compassionate young man. The picture they chose for the program had such an infectious smile. That seems to be what everyone remarked upon the most. His smile and how he was always laughing. Perhaps some of the young folks who were there at the services, who knew him, will carry some of that light and compassion away with them and pay it forward. Maybe we all will.
The cantor sang beautifully, the Rabbi's words were profound and he reminded us that we are burying only the house of Dillon's spirit while we say goodbye this way. He does not live there anymore, and his spirit goes on. Put here, it seems trite, but there standing in the grass as they lowered the casket and recited the Kaddish, it seemed like the Rabbi got it right.
My heart broke for his family all over again. They love him so much. They are so heartbroken. They miss him so much. I cannot imagine being his mother.
During the service the cantor sang a lullaby in Hebrew that the boy's mother used to sing to him when he was a baby. A lullaby that her mom used to sing to her, that her grandmother sang to her mother and so on. It had been so hot and humid, the air lay on us all like a wet blanket (I was outside on the grass) and then suddenly a cool little breeze picked up and it began to rain, just the tiniest bit. Like tears. Or maybe comfort, or a hug. Just while the lullaby was being sung. The sun was still shining and I know somewhere there was a rainbow. There just had to be. A promise that it'll all be okay.
I'm so grateful that I was able to be there with the girl, that the camp parents came together to make it possible for the kids to come home long enough to go say goodbye. I'm glad I could give her that. I'm glad she's still here with me, on this earth. It is so very... precious.
The house is very empty now. It's only 3 days till the kids come home for good, but I think these 3 days will be the hardest of the whole month.
I came home from the service and spun yesterday. I think I will do some more of that today.