Mourning

My bestie, my sister, the Godmother to my son, is African, specifically Eritrean. (For those that don't know, Eritrea is a country on the east coast of Africa, next to the Red Sea). I attended the funeral service of my friend’s Aunt and was so moved by it, I came home and immediately started on this piece. My heritage is Irish and German and our funerals and memorial services are solemn and quiet. You stifle your tears, stand strong and look forward to the reception afterwards to drink, unless, of course, you haven't already had a swig of whatever they had in the back. There isn't much theatrics or ceremony present until after the service. This Eritrean Catholic service I attended was the complete opposite, the yin to my pensive Irish funeral yang. At the end of the service I had this overwhelming feeling that I was allowed in to see and experience something scared, something special and unique to the Eritrean culture. I felt like a complete outsider but so blessed to have been able to attend.

The entire 2 hour long mass was moving and here are my thoughts. There was chanting, by many attendees and the priests, low yet loud enough to fill the entire sanctum. There was incense burning, if you've been to any catholic church this is a very nostalgic scent. The Frankincense and Myrrh was wafting through this wood and stone church rising high with the chants and reverberations of wailing from the first pew filled with female family members. The incense danced around the rafters and bounced back down for us to breathe in the soft smoke. Periodically bells were rung and cut through the chanting and scripture. English was not the dominate language spoken throughout the service but I still felt as though I understood. I believe the outpouring of grief is as universal as love.

I thought of my friends aunt. First time I met her, she was wearing their traditional light weight cotton dress, she was holding a beer and given that I was staring mouth agape at this African Auntie enjoying her beer, she looked me up and down and said, "What? You've never seen an old woman drink a beer before?"

At points during this service I had tears in my eyes, not just for the loss of a family member but at how beautiful the service was. It wasn't really a service, it was an out pouring of grief and emotion. I thought to myself, this is how you mourn, this is how you get that immediate grief out. Now where's the Irish whiskey and a beer...both of which I'm sure Minia would enjoy. RIP