Death and pastries

So I was at this funeral today, and afterward we were at the decedent’s house eating ruglach and celery, hanging out, mourning, and I’m talking with this dude whose eighteen year old son just moved to Israel with the intention of joining the army.  An alter kaker comes up to him and says, “you must have really ambivalent feelings; so happy to see him go to Israel, but missing him at the same time,” and he replied, “No, I’m not ambivalent at all.  I want my fucking son to come back, now.”

I love the assumptions other people make about what their fellow human beings must be feeling.  Funerals are great for that.  I just keep my fucking mouth shut except to say, “I’m sorry.”  This one was OK, except clergy always makes me feel dirty, but not in a good way.  Sometimes they say the right thing, like, “this is a time for us to hang together and comfort each other,” and sometimes they say idiotic stuff about God being good, everything having a reason.

Everything does not have a reason, and if God meant for there to be one, God can suck my dick.  At the funeral was an old man who, in the last few years has lost two of his kids and his wife.  At the funeral were two kids who have to find their way without their mom.  At the funeral was a widower who looked as if he’d been hit by a truck.  At the funeral were friends, the kind who stay on the phone together until two a.m. just talking about nothing, now waiting by the phone that doesn’t ring.

There’s been too many goddamn funerals this year, too many opportunities to make people feel even worse.  I’m just sticking to, “I’m sorry,” muttered around a mouthful of seven-layer cake.