“Thanks for coming to help,” Jessi said. “It means a lot.”
“Happy to,” I assured her. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Jessi’s smile was warm and reached all the way up to her eyes. Her mouth crinkled in gratitude.
I wasn’t entirely sure what I was signing up for when I agreed to help be on call for a memorial service. All I knew was that I had a free Sunday afternoon and the chance to come in to St. Cecilia’s for an easy hundred bucks.
The memorial was for some great-uncle, from what I gathered. A slideshow of old photographs scrolled slowly on the lobby TV above the frenzy of family members scurrying around.
“If you could keep the coffee and food going, that’d be great,” Jessi told me. “There’s another plate of salmon in the fridge once the first one’s done, and ice to go in the bins for the beer and cider.” She barely finished explaining my tasks before turning around to another relative. “No, not there!” She gestured frantically at the bundle of zinnias. “Over there.”
I felt a little out of place. Friends and relatives were now pouring into the reception, and I was reluctant to stay up at the front desk. I didn’t know these people, much less the identity and life of the deceased. I made my rounds up and down the stairs with the final carafes of coffee, tucked myself behind the desk computer, and resumed one of my favourite activities of people-watching.
What I saw was that the atmosphere was far from somber. Sunlight poured in through the vintage glass at the front doors, a perfect fall day.
I saw that Jessi’s love—and grief—was loud. “I’m in charge,” she’d told me. “Damn family has all sorts of opinions.” Jessi wanted the service to be perfect, down to the last flower arrangement. She kept coming over to ask me if everything was going okay. “Please, eat,” she urged. “There’s so much food, and we couldn’t do this without you.”
I saw people laughing and holding each other. I saw a woman stand with her head tilted up to the TV, watching this man’s photographs click by with a faint smile on her face. I saw a young man lift his phone up to the light-filled windows and snap a picture. There was live music and singing and fresh fruit and bright pink flowers tucked into hollowed-out pumpkins for vases. A woman not much older than I sat on the foyer playing a set of singing bowls, pausing to blow her nose here and there. A young girl plonked in a chair next to me, snacking away at the refreshments. I snuck downstairs with her and gave her some breadsticks. Conversations filled the air: My darling, could I get you a glass of wine? You might not remember this, but we met ten years ago at a birthday party. How are you? How are the kids?
It might’ve been a wedding. The passing of one man brought dozens of people into one room and closed the gaps in space and time.
He planned all this, you know, someone chuckled, shaking his head. Right down to the salmon and donuts.
It’s a weird thing to think about, but I decided that when I died I’d want whatever and whoever I leave behind to be just like this. Now that’s a celebration. Now that’s a legacy.
Chantale Shuāng Van Tassel (‘26) grew up in Hong Kong as an American-Taiwanese TCK and studied writing, linguistics, and Asian studies at Calvin. A lover of tea and aspiring polyglot, she enjoys cooking for her loved ones and tromping around big cities on a never-ending quest for dessert and the perfect pair of jeans.
