Sharing in the Moment
 
We are standing, toes pointing inward, in a ragged, awkwardly formed circle. Cousins, one and all, either in life or by marriage.
 
The ritual hugging circuit of our elders and then each other has already been completed. Now we have migrated into this portion of the wide, blue carpeting -- birds caught in the eye of a storm. There is small talk… chit-chat… about nothing. I am amused, realizing that this scene might have taken place fifty years younger than this day. All of us were raised to know what to do and what to say -- and not say -- on these occasions. In total, we are dressed in similar fashion: uncomfortable, going-to-church clothes. Necks send out orders to fingers calling for relief from tight collars. Toes accustomed to Nikes cry out to be liberated from their leather bonds.
 
Discomfort increases as the grieving cousin moves into our space. Her tight, tear-stained face sweeps the circle.  The line of mourners has dissolved and she is looking for a friendly haven where she won’t be left standing alone with her sorrow. But every person in this huddled mass has already expressed condolences. Our allotment of appropriate verbiage is completely depleted. For the second time in one, short week, this extended family has lost a wife, mother, sister…aunt. This night, it was an agonizing task dredging our brains in an attempt to pull forth just one non-mundane yet heartfelt phrase, after hearing our entire collected list of platitudes murmured by those ahead of us in the receiving line. Panic strikes the circle and we all focus away from her face to suddenly find interest in the carpet pattern or our own shoes. Silent, psychic messages are sent… asking -- praying -- that someone will volunteer to speak and break the deadly quiet that engulfs us.

Finally, thank God, one brave soul dares to venture in a totally untouched direction. He asks the grieving one about her coming retirement. Her face lights up and she grabs and embraces his words. There is a collective intake of breath by the group as she launches into an animated monologue about how many days she has left, how her job description has grown because of cutbacks and her necessity of retiring later than anticipated due to new Social Security mandates. Like bobble-heads, we sympathetically nod and our lips tighten as she speaks, reflecting our mutual disgust of corporate manipulation. Appropriate comments in this regard are muttered nearly in unison.  This is easy! We all have volumes to speak in complaint about work…and living. However, wrenching feelings from our guts about death and loss and transforming them into an acceptable, verbal format is another matter. In truth, it’s an act of terror; each knowing that our turn will come. Our day to choke back the tears while putting on our “brave face” will be here too soon for us.
 
We are, after all, just children fidgeting in a circle, tolerating an event we would rather miss. Cousins, one and all, who still treasure visions of late evening; screaming games of hide-and-seek in Grandma’s yard, faces glowing with sweat and leftover ice cream. Kids running wild… believing the sun will never set on our tumultuous joy.

~~~~~

Meg Whitman is an occasional contributor to the footnote. She plans to continue her "Life Lines" series of essays in future issues.