In
Cuba the situation has reached a limit that, as my mother says,
people have lost their love for life and the respect for the death.
Starting with the bureaucratic system in which we live; a funeral in
Cuba is the most depressing thing. To start with, you only have 24
hours to gather the family, have funeral and bury the dead.
After
the Pope John Paul II visited the isle, more people started to have a
service at the cemetery church a few minutes before the burial, and
it is very short, because the priest has a few funeral sermons to
give up. I guess that, except for the name nothing changes in his
speech. The ugliest building in Cuba is the funeral home, which has
several lounges, and inside the walls are of a gray and cold marble.
Each lounge is equipped with aluminum and plastic rocking chairs, the
most uncomfortable furniture you can sit to cry your beloved dead.
What's worse is that during the 24 hours you're there, trying to
accept reality, all kinds of people come to visit. Specially the
curious and the relatives who never remembered the dead when he was
alive. Every funeral has a tearful person, which stands in front of
the dead looking through the glass and shouting: Ouch! Unfortunately
that! So young! He was a good person! Look, he looks like he is
asleep! It's like he is going to wake up at any moment! Or the
typical cry: Why? Why? Why did you do this? Fortunately always
appears somebody who controls the hysteric crier. I came to believe
that someone paid them to do the show. But that's not the worst part.
The visit becomes aware gossip. From a corner, watching to everyone
in the room and saying: Oh, did you see how emaciated was deceased...
Dresses ( the ) widow (er ) has not missed a tear. Girl, if I heard
that she (he) already has someone... What's the future of those
children, a stepfather (or mother) is not good... And they will tell
ten thousand versions of how the deceased died. For you to have an
idea, these rooms have better acoustics than the national theater.
How many times do the family has to hear that cold phrase "I'm
so sorry". Sometimes I'd asked them, what are you sorry for? In
the cemetery, the gravediggers are in such a hurry to put in place
the pitiful coffin, that often do not even wait until all the family
has gathered around. They almost close the cold cement thumb lid on
our nose. Nobody says anything about the person who had just past
away. People turn around and go, as zombies, back to their routine of
survival. The widow, mother, sons, return home to mourn silently
against the wall.
After
what experience you can imagine I don't do very well in funerals. But
when it comes to accompany a friend on his lost, what can we do. To
my surprise the first service I attended in the U.S. was in a church.
The family put photos of their mother at different stages of her life
at the entrance, all the shots were beautiful, they had a guest book
in which all the visitor signed and an album with photos of her last
birthday party. From the hallway I could hear the piano. In the
center of the church the coffin looked like a music box, with a
beautiful bouquet of white lilies above. The place could not have
been more welcoming.
When
the service began, I can swear that I felt I was in a Hollywood set,
because I had only seen something so special and perfect in a
romantic comedy. The family came by with the singing of the choir, to
which I joined humming because I did not know the lyrics. After the
first sermon the pastor gave, came a chorus of bells. I closed my
eyes and in my mind I saw butterflies flying, all was peace in the
garden where the tinkling of bells were produced by millions of
colorful wings. Then it followed a prayer, which if I remember
correctly, it was 1 Corinthians 13, one of my favorite bible verses .
The
nicest thing about this funeral; I would name it different, because
neither “service” is a proper name; was to see a whole family
together, diversity filled the view. Children, spouses, grandchildren
and great grandchildren. Their outfits could not be more elegant or
show more respect, it reminded me of another of those films that I
watched many times because I was so impressed by it: “La Bella
mafia”. But in this case there was no Mafia, it was just the time,
the memories and a beloved mother. They prepared everything in great
detail, the music that she preferred, talked about all the wonderful
things she planted within them. They said thank you, Mom. And they
sang in chorus, accompanied by a violin. There were tears and
laughter. And the final words of the pastor were very honest and
simple for those, like me, who have not had the opportunity to meet
the person we were saying goodbye .
Each
of the children took a white lily, and walked behind the two men who
carried the coffin in solemn step. The guests follow. The line of
cars was formed, police stopped traffic and all arrived together to
the cemetery, where there was a tent and chairs on a green carpet . A
short prayer, the lilies were deposited on casket, there were hugs
and tears. Then we could talk to the family, tell them how nice was
their mother's farewell. They were to gather together and celebrate
the life of his mother. We walk to our car with other friends after
we saw the family depart. That night I cheer for my lost friends and
family in Cuba with a martini and tears of great relief.
AnechyNotes
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