I almost didn’t go to Hudson’s memorial service. I very much wanted to go, but then when I was shivering out in the chill gray rain, waiting at a crosswalk to walk to my car, I thought wildly that maybe I shouldn’t go. I didn’t really know Mandy that well. I’d never met her husband, Ed. I was wearing the wrong clothes (a stupid white cardigan), the wrong shoes (open toed sandals). I’d be intruding. Then, as tears ran down my face, I realized that I was considering not going out of fear. The fear of all that sadness and grief over a little girl the same age as my own. Who could have easily been mine.
I remembered that when my father died, I looked around the room at his memorial service and was touched and grateful for the people there. My parents hadn’t lived in Idaho all that long when my father died, having spent a lifetime already in Santa Fe. I didn't know who would come to the memorial. So when I saw my mom’s neighbors and my aunt’s neighbors and my aunt’s friends there in the quiet room at the funeral home, I was surprised. People who didn’t know me at all, but were there for me, nonetheless. I remembered that, and I decided I had to go, to swell the throng, to show Mandy and Ed how many people their daughter’s life had touched, how many people were there for them.
I always think that it’s unfair when it rains on the day of a funeral or memorial. We associate rain with sadness in this society. There is no sun, just gray sky and falling water. It reminds us of tears. But would it be better if it were sunny, bright light shining down, illuminating grief? There is no good weather for the death of a child.
The memorial service was held at the Franciscan Monastery, in St. Francis Hall. It is supposed to have beautiful gardens and grounds, that on another day would be wonderful to explore. Not today. I stood behind a dozen other people on the hall steps under my umbrella, regretting my open-toed sandals as rainwater poured under my toes. A nun gently took my arm and told me to step up under the awning, to get out of the weather. I lowered my umbrella and thanked her. Then I realized why it was taking so long to get into the hall. Mandy and her husband Ed were standing at the entrance, greeting people. I wasn’t expecting that. I thought I’d just be able to slip in, sit down, and just be present. I started to shiver again. What would I say? Would Mandy recognize me? Would I have to explain awkwardly who I was and why I was there?
Mandy hugged me as soon as she saw me. “Oh, Roberta! Your blog post was amazing. Amazing.” I hugged her for a long time. I couldn’t speak, my throat closing with more tears. I managed to mumble, “I’m glad you read it.” I hugged her again, trying to communicate my sorrow in that gesture, as my voice and words failed me. I thought, no, you’re amazing. Hudson was amazing.
I walk into the hall, and realize that in my effort to travel light, I have stupidly left my packet of tissues in the car. Someone has thoughtfully placed a box at the entrance to the hall. I grab four. I know I will need them. I find a seat. My hands are shaking uncontrollably, and tears keep running down my face.
The memorial service is done Quaker-style, with some moments of silence at the beginning to reflect on why we are here. Then, anyone can speak, and we give a moment of silence after each speaker to reflect on the words. People speak, and we reflect until it is done, I suppose, and there is nothing left to say today. Mandy and her husband go first. I don’t know how they can even stand up there and talk. I still can’t stop crying. But I remember doing that too, at my dad’s memorial service. Something came over me, because I wanted to tell those people in that room about my dad, about the essence of who he was. Mandy and Ed are beautiful and handsome, and poised, and honest, and grieving. Ed tells us that the form of meningitis that Hudson had was so aggressive that the only thing they could have done was to know in advance that she would get it, and give her prophylactic treatment. I ache for them. Members of their families get up to speak. Her father, her brother. Then friends, and colleagues, and parents of Hudson’s classmates, and the caregivers at Hudson’s daycare. I cry nonstop; I don’t know how anyone could have kept from crying in that room.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a little girl crawling up the outside aisle next to me, her father trailing patiently after her. She looks too old to be crawling, and I think maybe she is pretending to be a dog. She sits on the floor, turns her face to me, and I realize she has Downs Syndrome. I think, would I have birthed you? And then I think, she is beautiful, with long tawny hair and curious eyes. Her father picks her up, to keep her from tangling with the AV equipment. She screeches, and pushes on his torso with her hands and feet, trying to get down, a gesture that I know very well from the Olive. He lifts her up to look at some chandeliers in an adjacent breezeway, and she is fascinated as she touches the small lights.
Two of the mothers from Hudson’s daycare are inspired: they get the entire hall of people to sing “If You’re Happy and You Know It,” one of Hudson’s favorite songs. My throat closes up again, and I can’t sing, but I whisper the words, and clap my hands, stomp my feet, and nod my head, laughing inside at the comic spectacle of dozens of adults singing this silly song in the austere setting of a memorial service at a monastery.
More people speak. I know I won’t get up there. I’ve already said my piece. Then, someone decides that it is time to move on, for today, and the photo slideshow of Hudson starts. I’ve been dreading and looking forward to it in equal parts: wanting to see all of the photos, but knowing how sad it will be. I almost can’t stand it when Nick Drake’s “Pink Moon” starts playing.
They are so familiar, those photos. The ones we all have of our beloved babies. The photos of them just after birth, sleeping curled like frogs on everyone’s chests, with favorite outfits on, with the family pets. And all the firsts: laughing and rolling and sitting up and crawling and walking and talking and eating. Food and cake smeared on a joyful face. Living room rugs, high chairs, snow, cherry blossoms, grass, parks, playgrounds. The photos and video clips make everyone in the room smile and laugh.
After the slideshow, we all go outside. The rain has stopped, for now. We all grab tiny plastic bottles, and blow bubbles. A blizzard of bubbles, rising over the crowd. You can’t help but smile. Then Mandy asks us all to sing “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,” another of Hudson’s favorites, and I can’t again, so I keep blowing bubble, tears running down my face. Then we are done; I need to go. My friend Jennifer’s daughter Emily looks up at the drifting bubbles, and asks for more.
I walk away and I realize, there will never be any more photos. The rest of the pages in the album will be blank, and Hudson will always be no more than seventeen months old. I am walking quickly to my car, to go home and hug my daughter, touch her petal-soft cheek, my little star. I am glad I came to the memorial service; it somehow brought me comfort. But it goes on, for Mandy and Ed. After all the words and photos and memorial services here and in North Carolina, casseroles and throngs of friends and family, it will eventually be quieter and just be Mandy and Ed again, and that will be the hardest part. Remembering Hudson, celebrating her, loving her always, but coming to terms with the disbelief, the anger, the grief, the stillness, the absence that will also be there. I ache for them.
*The theme of the celebration of Hudson's life.
