We Buried My Father
Dec 11 2014


We buried my father
in raw earth, slick with clay.

On a rise of land
under leaden skies,

in bitter wind

on a wintry day.
An open view, that should have been generous
but just felt exposed.
A hard place
in which to rest,
let alone
spend eternity.

In a bleak December
when all the trees were bare,
thin branches, stiffly angled
as if shorn of flesh.
When only in spring
will we be able to tell
which are living, and which are dead.

A funeral should be summer soft.
So we can mourn properly
undistracted by thoughts of warmth,
collars clasped close
shivering with cold.

But which at least forced us to share
his lonely interment
in the cold dark earth.
The heavy coffin, in a slow descent,

as if gravity

did not act on the dead;
clotted soil, smacking the wood
sealed lid, spattered with dirt.
His mortal remains;
a little lighter than life
if you believe in a soul's
infinitesimal weight.

The presiding official
was a total stranger,
the ritual formal, alien
at least to me.
A Jewish burial
for a proud Jew
who was not observant
and did not believe in God.

But such is identity, inscrutably complex.
Because we're all essentially tribal,
and wear the past
with loyalty, reverence
gratitude.
Just like family,
to which we belong, no matter what.

I, too, am a Jewish atheist.
A tribe that's surprisingly large;
an unavoidable hazard
when the people of the Book
have learned to read
too much, too deep,
dared to think
far too freely.

It was a closed casket
so we could each imagine
the man who lived,
undiminished
by infirmity, illness
age.
An elegant box
in beautifully burnished wood
consigned to the grave.
Its only ornament was a raised Jewish star
for this son of David,
humble descendant
of Abraham, and Moses
Einstein, Spinoza,
the millions the Shoah
erased from the world.
Which I think he might have questioned,
because identity is complex
and he was so much more
than one six-pointed star,
his Jewishness
one small facet
of a restive man.

Either way, the casket has vanished
under hard-packed earth,
so we go on remembering
however we wish.
I think of fierceness, laughter
delight
in life's small pleasures,
a good meal, a sweet dessert.
Of generosity
and steady strength.
Of the entrepreneur
who never let adversity
discourage, deflect.
Of quiet pride
in his children’s success,

his children’s children

down the tree of descent.

And in bitter wind, under heavy skies
of the love of his life,
at his side to the end.

 

I felt insufficiently reverent at my father's funeral (the burial itself, not the deeply moving memorial service that preceded it), because I was under-dressed and cold: too preoccupied with getting someplace warm. And because the ritual -- which was very Jewish -- did not only have little meaning for me, it did not represent him well. His Jewishness was extremely important to him, but it wasn't about dogma, belief, or ritual; it was a more complicated and nuanced expression of identity and belonging, a proud acknowledgement of Jewish history and culture (not to mention food!) So the Star of David that was the only ornament on his simple casket wasn't nearly the sum of the man. In the end, I find myself vacillating between seeing his funeral service as a kind of betrayal of his beliefs, and wondering whether he'd actually be pleased to have his identity so unambiguously proclaimed.

The shorthand of poetry gets at some of this complexity. Because I think the famous Jewish philosopher Spinoza would have described himself as an atheist. And because all Jews take a quiet collective pride in the great thinkers of our tribe; the Einsteins, writers, and statesmen, no matter how pious or how disbelieving. And because the Holocaust and the fight against Hitler, as well a the creation of the Jewish state, had an immense influence on him and his conviction. He supported Israel; but he was also a proud and loyal Canadian, and would never for an instant have considered leaving this country.

I was also struck by the bleakness of the grave site: the cold wind, the exposure, and the heavy sky seemed like no place to consign this good man to eternity. He should be someplace warm and lush and full of sun.

The casket was beautiful: elegant in its simplicity, gorgeously finished. Although in my usual frugal way, I couldn't help thinking how wasteful it was to bury this lovely object, how brief its useful life.

So my only choice will be to die in high summer. And to have a fully secular burial. And to be consigned to a cardboard box, a wicker basket, or a simple cotton sheet. Because I abhor extravagance. And because I want to return to the soil as quickly as possible. My dead body isn't me: it cannot be profaned, because it's simply an empty container, a poor reminder of who I was.