Stars on the Ground

My grandmother's service was lovely. The Methodist minister---who looked young enough to be my son---struck the right balance of humor and solace. I was so glad to hear him talk about my grandmother's love of fun, her independence, her penchant for playing practical jokes. He made us laugh, and believe me, that was a fine thing to do. Years ago, my grandmother informed us that she didn't want a lot of crying and sniffling at her funeral. She didn't really want a funeral; she wanted us to throw a big party with lots of laughter and good food and conversations about all the wacky things our family has done.

At one point during the service, I made myself look away from the beige-and-ivory marble urn that held my grandmother's ashes. I was close to losing my composure for the 987th time, so I was trying to distract myself from doing something disruptive, like howling at the sky. So I focused on the strand of trees that bordered that particular corner of the cemetery, and as I watched, a puff of wind stirred the branches and sent a handful of bright gold leaves floating free. They spun and dipped and finally settled, one by one, on the blazing green grass. They looked like stars on the ground, rare and beautiful and somehow holy.

Hours later, after everyone had left and I had let myself have a good cry in the hotel room, Robby and I went back to the cemetery. The sky was restless with heavy clouds in shades of gray and lavender. Birds sang in the darkening trees. I touched the rough curve of the family headstone and brushed bits of grass from the foot marker bearing my grandmother's name and date of birth. I put my hand on the small patch of rumpled grass and turned earth that marked where her urn now rested. The wind made the white roses on the funeral spray flutter their petals.

"I can't feel her here," I told my husband.

"Because she's not here, really," he replied. "She's busy having fun."

"Places to go, people to see," I said.

We stood shoulder to shoulder, and I tried to convince myself that crying did absolutely no good. I kept hearing her voice in my memory, the way she said my name, the way she'd laugh all the way up from her toes. It began to rain, softly at first, then with real force. The only thing I could hear was the sound of the rain on the ground and the low distant murmur of thunder.

I said good-bye to my grandparents one more time, and I left them to their quiet sleep with the rain, the trees, and the leaves like stars on the ground.