April 22nd

Sometimes I sing. I make sure it isn't too often. I love music, though, and love to sing when I'm alone in my car.

One song that will forever be in the back of my mind is "Amazing Grace." It may as well be THE funeral song. It has proven to be so in my life. The somber melody almost creates the ability to ignore the lyrics. Sang softly, loudly, solo, a cappela, by a choir, played by bag pipes, piano, violin; it barely matters. It's haunting almost.

My aunt sang it at my Unca Dave's funeral 12 years ago.

In his honor and memory, I got the treble clef of the first line tattooed to my left wrist this past fall.

Before it had time to heal, an old friend of mine passed away (by old, I mean both in her 80s and having known her for a long time - she was at my uncle's funeral). Her name was Mary.

I was asked to speak/talk/share/sing at her funeral. What I did and how I did it was mostly up to me. As I sat and talked about it with Mary's son and not-quite-daughter-in-law, we shared stories and memories. The one that immediately stood out to me was when Jill (the not-quite-daughter-in-law), Mary and I had been fooling around with my "piano." We were singing along with the preprogammed songs when we came across "Amazing Grace."

I immediately thought of Unca Dave. Mary tried to sing along and teared up a little - I'll never be sure why.

Jill and I talked about a few songs I could sing - I figured singing something generic would be easier than talking about how much and why I loved Mary. We settled on "Amazing Grace."

Deep down, I knew I couldn't do it. I shoved those thoughts and feelings aside and drove around Albuquerque for the rest of the afternoon, tears streaming down my face, iPhone with googled lyrics on the screen in hand, trying to find a key I could sing in and still sound decent if my sobbing became uncontrollable.

I was singing the next day.

I woke up the day of the funeral. Told my boss I wouldn't be coming in until I could (or the next day) and took my time slipping into a black, 20s-style dress and a set of pearls. I threw on some more jewelry - Mary always "got a kick out of my jewelry."

I walked down the hall of my apartment complex (where Mary had lived for years and I had gotten to know her so well). Almost in a daze. I walked to my car. Noticed that leaving then would get me to the service about 30 minutes early.

I wormed my way down to the service instead of taking a direct route. Avoiding singing or humming the song all the way there. I didn't want to get worked up until I had to.

I stopped at Starbucks and told myself, "An iced green tea will help clear your throat of the unending tears of the past days. It'll calm you down and cool you off."

I was sort of right.

I drove the few more minutes to the service and got there just as Jill started pulling pictures, the guest book, a cooler full of beer and other things out of her car.

I helped her.

Still in a daze. My mind was on "Amazing Grace" and my Unca Dave as much as it was on Mary at that point.

Finished unloading.

Talking to some pastor about how special I am for singing in an old lady's memorial. All I could think was, "From what I know, you're not from Albuquerque and never met her. Also, you're awkward and just checked me out. But thanks for the sentiment." I smiled and nodded.

Jill dragged me outside for a quick smoke. Then inside for a quick pee, "so we didn't have to run out during the ceremony."

The ceremony started. I sat with my best friend to my left. His dad (my dad) behind me, with his girlfriend to his left. My grandfather (who had known Mary since college) was across the auditorium. A friend of mine (Matt - Mary's son's employee) behind me to my right. Jill and Pete (Mary's son) in front if me to my left.

The pastor who didn't know Mary blabbed about how amazing Mary was. He had only heard of her that week. Then her kid's friends shared stories about how amazing she was. That was touching.

I was fighting back tears.

I wanted to share why I was going to sing "Amazing Grace."

The lump in my throat only got bigger.

Jill finally mentioned the story - kind of. It was enough.

Suddenly, "And now, Kekky, a young friend of Mary's is going to sing for us."

I stood up. Completely in a fog. Certain I had no idea what I was doing. All I could think was, "For Unca Dave and Mary. They'd both be proud."

Without stuttering, without fumbling and without falling off key, I sang the song. Too high. As soon as I sang the first note, I knew it was too high.

I grabbed my left wrist with my right hand, stared past anyone who cared and set "performing" aside.

I kept telling myself, "Remember the tattoo. Remember Mary's face when you sang. Unca David is smiling down on you."

I finally sat back down after singing three haunting verses; knowing I couldn't have done it without my tattoo, without Unca David.

No one clapped.

Peter said, "Thank you, Kekky," with a glisten in his eyes.

Jill was wiping her eyes. Tissues were being passed around on the other side of the auditorium.

I sat by my best friend and grabbed his arm for comfort. He handed me a tissue and cried himself. His dad leaned forward, patted me on the head and said, "That was beautiful, Kekky."

The tears wouldn't stop. I had no more obligation to the service and don't recall much more.

When it was over, I stood up and walked to my grandfather to help him to his car. He said he loved me and was proud of me. I mentioned the tattoo and my aunt singing it for Unca David. He looked sad, but like it had shaped who he had become.

I couldn't help but laugh and smile at the small talk that ensued on the way to car.

I kissed him goodbye and teared up again because of how amazing he is.

I walked back into the building only to be told over and over how beautiful it was and how much people appreciated it.

I felt almost guilty because of how many of my thoughts were turned more to Unca David than Mary.

I couldn't have sang for her without him. I know she knew that. And I know she loved that I sang. And I knew Unca Dave was proud.

He's been gone for 12 years today. And I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I wouldn't be who I am without him.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone