Death and the Writer

Death drapes itself in all sorts of drama -- who has died, how did they die, who did they leave behind, how did those left behind feel, and the overarching mystery of whether there's life after death and what it looks like. (I know I just told you instead of showing you, but this is an essay and not prose.)

I just attended Richard's aunt's funeral. Norma died of cancer which she had battled for several years. She died at 79 and left two stepchildren and numerous nieces, nephews and grandchildren. This I learned from the priest who gave the eulogy.

The family practiced Missouri Synod Lutheranism, which meant they had no doubts that Norma would go to heaven to be with her Maker, because Lutherans are covered (despite their total ineptitude) through baptism. This I learned from the funeral service. 

Nobody cried, but many commented on how beautiful she looked in the open coffin. Everyone caught up on how everyone else was doing before the funeral.

After the internment, the crowd reconvened at the local chicken joint, a meal paid for by the deceased.  

I wrote this as an observer. Not so much drama, right? Imagine this as the backbones of a story ...