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A Pine Box

Years before my dad died I asked him what kind of funeral did he wish to have. He said he wanted to be buried in a pine box. When he died, we got a pine box and had it delivered to the funeral home. It was the kind you had to assemble yourself, and we, all of his children, assembled it together. I noticed that the funeral director looked horrified and upset. He looked so distraught that I pulled him aside and asked him if this was normal in his eyes. He emphatically said: No. 

I asked him what other people did -- this being my first funeral where details were on me, -- and asked him to show me what was normally done. He took me to a room filled with caskets that startled me. I felt like I was suddenly in a car showroom being told to step inside the Bentley I hadn't come to buy. None of the caskets were designed for the person expected to go into them. There was no casket for the life spent singing or dancing, painting or reading. Not one casket seemed suitable for those that had joyfully raised children or for a teacher, and none of them spoke about the kindness or disposition of the departed. All of the caskets were designed to ease something inside the hearts and minds of the family left wailing behind. I am not sure how the cost of a casket became symbolic and synonymous with how much you love someone. I am even more perplexed wondering who is expected to be impressed with a casket once it is 6 feet under and on its way to heaven. Some people might say you want a good casket so that the body will remain intact forever, but I don't want to see my father again in 20 years time and since he died a natural death I can't see the coroners office wanting him back up for a forensic inspection. (My dad would have laughed at that last line).

All of the caskets were so out of character to my father, and my reaction was visceral. They were either all plastic-y white, or a shitty wood made to look expensive but all of them looked suitable for what I imagined a pimp would wish to be buried in. The kind of pimp that dons a fur fedora. Not one of those caskets looked suitable for my dad. I wanted my dad to look natural. I wanted him placed in the ground looking like the man I knew. I wanted him to return to the earth from whence he came. 

Some of my family was upset that he wasn't buried in a finer style, but I swear to God, I feel happy that we put that box together as his children, and I feel happy that I rummaged through my aunt Charlotte's closet, my father's sister, searching for handmade quilts to wrap him in. My father loved quilts and had collected them throughout his life. I bundled him up in quilts myself to keep him warm and loved in the afterlife. And I love thinking about the last time I saw him. Surely, if there is an afterlife, my father smiled that day.

Now I brought all this up because I just saw a picture of Aretha Franklin's casket and for a store bought number, I thought it was nice. But that is Aretha whereas I needed to remember my dad in a different way.
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