In Memoriam

J---'s grandmother passed away this weekend. A sad affair for the whole family, myself included, since I thought she was a pretty nifty old lady. I packed up my funeral dress and hopped on the train for Montreal.

Considering I'm not yet thirty years old, I feel that I have been to too many funerals. Eight. Only two of which were for elderly persons who died of "natural" causes. Experience notwithstanding, I am bad at funerals. I never know what to say. I am mute in the face of others' grief. My own grief is always silent. I even have a hard time with "I'm so sorry." It seems inadequate. Am I apologizing on behalf of the universe for the loss of their loved one? I hope someday to become the kind of woman my mother manages to be in times such as these: making tea and getting sandwiches for the bereaved, running interference, saying all the right things, and generally exuding an air of compassion and calm.

On the day of the service, we made our way to the "family room" at the funeral parlour. I made the mistake of sitting in an armchair right next to the open door. Within moments of sitting, a pair of little old Jewish ladies tottered in and descened upon me, clutching my hands and telling me earnestly in French just how very sorry they were. My French is okay; I understand most of what's going on. At least, in France I do. Montreal is its own beast, and I certainly didn't have the capacity to tell these ladies that whomever they might be looking for in order to bestow their condolences, it certainly wasn't me. I also didn't want to send away what might be two of J---'s grandma's bingo buddies. So for a few, long, horrifying seconds, I was the focus of all their regretful attention. Luckily, my sister-in-law swept in with a "You've got the room wrong!" and saved me. Phew. The only thing worse than not having anything to say to those truly mourning is not having anything to say to those who seem genuinely upset but you have no idea who they are.

Since I had no forum in which to share my favourite story about J---'s bubbie over the weekend, I will share it here.

It was my first Rosh Hashannah with J---'s family, and the first time that I was meeting my then-boyfriend's extended family. Aunts, uncles, cousins, grandmothers, the full deal. I'd picked a pretty, not-too-showy-or-sexy dress, been on my best behaviour all night (not drinking too much wine with dinner, not obviously bingeing on the honey cake afterwards), and I thought I was doing fairly well in terms of making a good impression. After the meal, the men all disappeared somewhere -- I think to play chess -- and I was left alone with the ladies. All right, I thought, some girl-bonding time, this is where I can really score some points. The bubbie turns to me. Now, Bubbie immigrated from Hungary, and so has a delightful old-world accent. She asks a few questions about my trip into town (the train was late), where we're staying (at J---'s parents' place), small-talk stuff. I struggle a bit with the accent, but I'm doing okay. Then, she comes out with:
"So, has J--- tried to sleep with you yet?"
My smile freezes in place. Inside my head, I am screaming. Whaaaaaaaa???
The silence of me not answering stretches out. I am certain that the other women at the table (his mom, his sister, his aunts) have overheard and are waiting for my answer. There is no answering this question.
She presses on:
"You know, Jack, the little dog, he jumps up on the bed there."
I heave a sigh of relief. Jack! His parents' little dog! Who does indeed try to jump on the bed to sleep with you!
"Oh yes," I say, "he has." And I laugh.

But I maintain, to this day, that that is NOT what she said the first time. She had a great sense of humour (sometimes obscured by her accent and nonconventional use of English, so you weren't sure if she was really making a joke), and I think she was a little bit naughty. I think she did it to see me sweat.

I'm sending lots of love into the universe in her memory.