Thirty Days
Thursday, July 31st, 2008Dear Friends of Marcel,
Bit by bit, all the many, many little things that Marcel shared with others are now re-assembling in our home. It’s as if we are all trying to put together the pieces into the gentle man that we can still smell, feel and embrace - tender letters of love and friendship, paintings, photos of extreme athleticism, tales of adventure and chivalry, shared poems, shared tears. The parts of him that he can no longer voice, I now hear from all of you. What treasures!
In life, Marcel dug in the dirt with his bare hands, he climbed, he soared, he risked love and friendship, and did it well and hard! And if he made a mess or cut his feet, or broke his bones or scarred his heart - then that was all part of it. For he never shortchanged himself - or any of us. In that light, I want to tell Marcel’s last best story.
After the funeral, many of us assembled around the hole in the ground that was to hold his body. Prayers had been said and the hardest moment was upon us, seeing our son, contained in a pine box, lowered into the ground. Rick surprisingly announced the next ritual to the somber crowd – the ceremonial “keying” of the coffin! So, proffering me a pen, he encouraged me to scratch my best imitation Marcel “blockhead” into the coffin’s polished finish. (The blockheads had been a family joke since Marcel, as a toddler, scratched what we think was his very first blockhead drawing into the door of our brand new mini-van.) Rick then invited more graffiti and asked if anyone wanted to place items of value into the grave. Well, who knew that a rubber frog or a sprouting potato or a $2.00 bill could be so valuable as to be chosen to accompany our son on his journey? We did. Or how much love was infused into the action figure, the arm patch, the hat, the books and the other odd assortment of offerings? As a last item, one of Marcel’s friends held up a bottle of Bulleit Bourbon with a questioning look in his eyes? I welcomed the bottle, even though I have never had whiskey in my life, took a deep drink and passed it around for the others to share before resting the almost empty bottle atop the casket.. Thus fortified, we again braced for the next moment. The grave attendants then lowered the casket into the ground.
As we watched, we heard the first grave attendant whisper “It doesn’t fit”. A second attendant and the foreman looked into the hole, made an assessment, and then slowly started to crank the coffin back to the surface. Once up, a quick discussion brought them to the conclusion that the side poles had to be removed. We stared, unbelieving, as Marcel’s father, uncles and friends debated how best do so. Crowbars, hammers and 2’ x 4s’ were helpfully retrieved from mourners’ cars and the poles were thus pried from their place. Seeing the outcome of their work, I gladly grabbed the first pole – now a staff - as a gift of physical support from my son. Chivalrous as always, he knew how much I needed something to hold me up. My 88 year old mother, his grandmother, in her wheelchair, grabbed hold of the other one. I immediately grasped the meaning of Regina (the queen) that represented all the strength and power she had infused into her children and grandchildren.
So, with bourban in my belly and a staff to support me, we watched as again the casket was lowered. Apparently, removing the poles was not enough – something else had to be sacrificed. This time it was the bolts that held the poles. A multi-tool was produced from a mourner’s purse, and most of us started to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.
It took a third try and the loud hammered removal of 4 wood blocks to successfully and finally accomplish the task for which we were all assembled. Needless to say, it was pretty hard to stay somber and reverent at that point. People laughed and joked through their tears. Someone said “He wasn’t ready to go”, But Rick countered with the best explanation: He said “No!, Marcel was a connoisseur of awkward situations. He knew that WE were not ready for him to go.” Thus, Marcel, in death, as in life, diffused an awkward situation, gave us something to laugh about and left us with his last best story.
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It has now been over 30 days since the death of our son, Marcel. As we pass through minutes, hours, days and nights, we pray that grace will shield us from the pain that is hacking at our hearts. Our bodies have become strangers to us as we feel things we don’t recognize as our own. Everything we thought we knew must be learned again in a different language, in a different landscape. We still wait for that sweet - voiced baritone “hello”, or the arrival of little notes with funny drawings or little gifts left on the porch. The guitars sit unplayed, he no longer strains the joints of the kitchen chair while telling us stories of friends, travels, philosophy, science, love, risk….
But, we all have the Marcel that resides in our hearts and memories. That is where he was and where he is. His influence and effect on people still grows. Thank you all for your beautiful letters, poems, photos, videos, music, paintings, drawings, food, plants, e-mails and phone calls. Forgive me for not responding yet. I will in time. Please know that Rick, Nathan and myself really feel and take much comfort in all your expressions of love. I look at something on the website every day. I still look forward to new postings. Rick is just beginning to do so. I have just downloaded the photographs from the camera that Marcel had on his trip and will post some of these soon.
If you would like to contact me personally you can e-mail me at marcelsmom at comcast dot net.
With love, affection and much gratitude for all of you, Veronica Fremont
