Another Funeral

Once again to Rose Hills- the largest cemetery in the world. My grand aunt passed away in her sleep last week. Having a large extended family- it was only a generation ago when one had 7 or 8 siblings; most everyone in my generation have at most one- means that as the scores of my aunts and uncles age, this is something I will see with increased frequency.

Perhaps it is this frequency at which these things occur that I am more numb than I am grief-stricken: is one's reservoir of grief something that is evenly distributed amongst the multitude of passing such that each receives a mere sliver of bereavement?

But once again to Rose Hills, the resting home of my family members and friends. Aunts, uncles, high school friend, family member of friends, and a fellow paddler. Funerals, such as they are, are reminders of our mortality and human frailty.

But it is also in this instance a family ritual. My extended family is sufficiently large that we meet only during weddings and funerals. And given the demographic distribution, more funerals than weddings. One of my other aunts once talked about how coming to America is about ensuring that my generation- me and my cousins- take root and grow. Tomorrow this happens in a very literal sense. And for me, this particular rite of passage then is also a part of my immigrant experience.