Funeral Songs

Perhaps it's morbid to think of songs one should play at their funeral, but after this weekend's service for Jim, I've been thinking a lot about the music I might choose to be played when I die.

Jim's choices were perfection. "Cattle Call" with LeeAnn Rimes and Eddie Arnold. How perfect is that? Tom Waits singing "Picture Frame." It doesn't get any better than that.

Of course, it's not what I might choose. On the way home this afternoon, Ann and I tossed around titles. She likes music, too, but her knowledge of what she likes is limited. "What's that song," she begins and I have to squeeze clues from her. "Sing it," I urge, but that doesn't work because she can't just pull tunes out of her memory. "What are some of the lyrics?" I prod, but there are only snippets, one-word clues that offer know real hints. "What's the song about," I finally ask, but she sits quietly, trying to think and nothing is offered.

I have too many songs to choose from. Way too many. I'm certain Jim did, too. How did he decide on the ones that were played? How did he winnow out the songs that weren't suited for such an occasion from the songs that were?

It was a beautiful service, if that's what funerals can be considered. Not just the music, but everything. The setting, Kay's eulogy, the words of reflection -- and especially my mother's reading of her own special memory of Jim. I cried a lot yesterday, but I really cried when my mother stood up to recount her story.

It's not dying that is sad. Yes, dying is sad, but the wake of grief it leaves behind is the saddest. That Kay was able to offer such a perfect eulogy for her husband was one way she expressed her grief. It was eloquent, it was poignant, it was full of love and laughter with tidbits of memory sprinkled throughout.

My father cried. I saw the tears drop from under his eye patch. I couldn't watch for too long because his tears fueled my own. My mother cried, too, though not when she read her remembrance. She stood right by me as she read and when she moved, her leg brushed my shoulder as I sat listening and crying. I hope she felt my love for her that moment.

The wake Jim left behind, the wake of tears and sadness is wide. He was loved. If anything seemed apparent yesterday it was how much love surrounded his life.

I feel lucky to be one of the many who was able to love him.

And be loved in return.

I always knew I was lucky, but as we left the fellowship with Leonard Cohen (not really) singing but "poeting" (if there is such a word) I realized how Jim's service was a big thank you card to all of those who had touched his life.

I'm not sure I'll be lucky enough to plan my own service. I could start now, but there's this sense that my life will change before it ends and what I might choose now as a song or a poem or a verse may not be the kind of thank you card I'd want to send then whenever that then happens.

Jim's death was tragic in the sense that it came too soon and at the hand of a poison he could not control. But Jim's death, or the memory of his life shared yesterday, was one of most beautiful arias I've ever heard, music included.

That's the kind of man Jim was. Of course he'd leave behind the lingering notes of a beautiful song. Of course he would.