It could have been any given Sunday when I was a kid. Six uncomfortably attired family members would be piled into the station wagon, awaiting the seventh so that we could go to Mass. The seventh was always Julie. It was hard to get mad at her dawdling, what with my hating church and all, but then again she was pissing my parents off, and that was all of our problem.
My dad would yell for her out the window and lean on the horn. Mom would berate her thoughtlessness. And then Julie would finally appear, close the front door, and vacantly stroll down the sidewalk in a direction that was only nominally car-ish. She would pause and reflect on something known only to her. Sometimes she would reverse field and re-enter the house, which would send my parents into orbit.
"I swear to God, Julie," my mom invariably snapped whenever Julie finally climbed into the car, "You're going to be late for my funeral!"
Happened every single week.
CUT TO:
EXTERIOR - CEMETERY - DAY
It's ten years later, and we kids, emotionally exhausted from our mother's funeral, are standing beside her coffin. Julie somehow hasn't completed the trip from the church, so it's only four of us. The casket is about to be lowered into the ground, and the priest is conducting a graveside service. He hands Linda, the eldest, a Catholic maraca thing and instructs her to spritz the coffin once and pass the maraca to the next sibling. And so she does. And so does my brother. When it's Nadine's turn, we become aware of Julie's approach. We watch her stroll aimlessly through the cemetery, pausing to reflect on the occasional tombstone or butterfly, walking in a direction that was only nominally Mom-ish.
When she finally deigns to arrive, I hand her the maraca and tell her to spritz the casket. And boy, does she ever. She pumps the maraca with urgent, repeated thrusts, as if Mom's casket is on fire. She drenches the thing.
It's at this point that I hear Linda stifle a laugh. That's pretty much when I lose it. Soon, four kids burying their mother are on the verge of exploding in laughter, each of us thinking of the same Sunday morning ritual. It is perfect, really. It is exactly the service Mom would have chosen for herself. It is oddly beautiful. I cry for the first time.