Bianca,
Some author once said: “Funerals are not for the dead. Funerals are for the living.” It was probably John Greene. It was probably The Fault in Our Stars.
So I sat in the church today, crying, at the loss of this human. Thinking that there simply has to be an unspoken rule about crying more than the members of the immediate family.
I also thought, “I’ve probably never cried this much.” – the short truth is, I have. And I probably will again. But I also called Dylan straight after and told him not to ever break my fragile little heart or I don’t know what I would do.
Then I looked at the box. Sorry, the coffin. But I couldn’t get the whole box thing out of my mind.
Here was this man. This human. Who had lived a life. A good life, a bad life, who the fuck am I to judge. And where was the end? Where was the summation and the conclusion of his life long letter, his essay, his biography? In a box. And it looks big at first. Maybe that’s because the last funeral I attended was my babcia’s and I was 13 and it was so big. But this box was small.
It did not do a life’s work justice. Metaphysically the particles that made up this organism, this person, my uncle, were placed into this box. The hydrocarbons, the dead cells and chromosomes that were his biology’s recipes all contained in a 6 feet long box.
And morbidly - because how else does one feel at a funeral – I thought about all the boxes, that were in my life. When you get to the crux of the thought, you realise that life is a succession of beginning and ends and boxes.
On the birth certificate, they tick a box that determines gender.
Female [Tick]
When your baby grows you put all of those clothes into boxes. Just in case. Maybe you’ll give that child a sibling, maybe your sister will appreciate the hand-me-downs. Maybe your best friend will want that little blue knitted sweater. Just. In. Case.
Then you teach your baby, when they play, remember to pack the train set into the box. All of my old toys are in boxes. I have teddy bears. Just in fucking case.
Then winter clothes go into boxes, summer clothes go in the cupboard. Old clothes, go to the charity box. And in six months’ time you do the same thing again.
Classrooms are giant fucking boxes. Where you’re taught to fit into a box. To tick societies criteria. Are you good at math? [Tick] Did you go to prom with a boy? [Tick] Did you wear a pretty dress? [Tick]
And all the while you collect things you put into boxes.
Old books you’ll give to your cousin or the library. Old clothes you don’t fit into.
Then you leave and go to college. And that’s a whole other box.
I remember trying one for fit when I was 17. I would have had to live in a match box. That’s the size of a dorm room. A match box. A four walled box to contain you while you learn to tick more boxes.
And then you begin to look for someone who ticks Your boxes.
Is he kind? [tick]
Does he drink? [ no – tick]
Is he honest? [tick]
Does he make you feel alive? [tick]
But when you don’t fit his boxes. That’s when you collect a box of old lovers.
That’s what I did with Dean. All the letters, all the memories. A jar of tears. All in a box. Because you’re too fucking sentimental to throw it out. And you’ll just keep it. Just in case.
And then maybe, just maybe, one day you let it go. And the box is thrown away, or burnt, or buried.
And life goes on. And you keep collecting boxes. Boxes of memories, boxes of stuff.
Boxes for when you move out, for when you move in, for when you move on.
You get a new phone, there’s a new box.
So I was standing there, and I was crying more than the widow. Not because his life was that meaningful to me. But rather, because funerals aren’t for the dead. They are for the fucking living. Because they’re there to make you remember what it is to be alive. And if you’re still lucky – If you wake up, if you’re young enough. You can change what your life is like.
You can choose boxes. You can throw away boxes. But better yet. You can step out of your box. And never get back in.
That’s what scared the shit out of me. A six-foot box contained this collection of particles and cells that used to be a person. And that was it. That’s where it ends. And while that box contained all of those trillions of cells that used to be a heartbeat and a laugh, and a kiss, and a fiery explosion of love, marriage, orgasms and life… that box contained… nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Because how do you put a life worth of memories and actions into a box? you can’t.
You put the vessel of those memories and actions into the box.
And the energy that belonged to the person that lies within the box, gets transferred, gets transformed. You get to choose which box it goes to.
Heaven [Tick]
Purgatory [tick]
A tree [tick]
Another life [tick]
All I know is that my biggest fear is to be alone. It always has been. Because life is… meaningless unless you get to share bits of the journey with someone.
And now I know, I don’t want to end up in a box.
Yours,
Justyna
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