The funeral home was quaint, a two-story colonial cottage dwarfed by the hospitals on either side of it. My aunt, her cousin, and I went to drop off the funeral programs and my uncle’s oil portrait. When we arrived, the funeral director led us to the visitation room, and I saw my uncle’s body for the first time.

In addition to his ceremonial military uniform, he was also wearing a full coverage foundation and a generous amount of hair gel. I thought about how it was someone’s job to apply makeup to dead bodies, which made me think about the other preparations for the body.

When the funeral director returned, she asked about some last minute details, and she led us to the chapel where the service would take place. They discussed where the musicians would sit, where the casket would be placed, and where the portrait would be displayed.

I started to notice the details of the chapel—the tissue boxes placed at the end of every row, the wreaths around every sconce, the backlit stained glass mosaic meant to look like a real window. In my thinking about the work of the facilities managers and funeral directors, I considered the work that my aunt must have done in the last month since my uncle’s passing. Writing the obituary, picking the casket, coordinating with relatives, ordering the catering for the reception.

For the next two days, I tried to pay attention to the labor that went into preparing this funeral. I wanted to make sure that someone noticed the work everyone put into honoring my uncle, even if it was with a silent note of gratitude.

My mom created the guest book, and she added “Name” and “Address” headings on every page. She told me that she carefully color matched the font and lined it up by the pixel.

My mom, aunt, and sister rehearsed “It is Not Death to Die” for the last month, but they also spent the day before the funeral sneaking away as much as they could to rehearse some more. My aunt picked up the cello for the first time in twenty years, and my mom played the piano for the first time since my uncle’s wedding.

On the day of the visitation, my aunt’s family cooked from ten to five to make a feast for all the arriving relatives. They sweat over the stove and stirred until their arms ached.

There were three eulogies, one of which was by my other uncle. When I told him that his speech was beautiful, he said that he rewrote it fifteen times, and the weariness bled onto his face for a moment. I imagined forty-five drafts to create three two-minute speeches. I imagined hours spent sitting in front of a laptop, trying to encapsulate the essence of someone dear to you. When he said it, I saw the weariness on his face for a passing moment.

How strange it is to choose to labor over writing the perfect string of words, singing with the perfect tone, preparing the perfect meal to honor a person who can’t experience their veneration. How strange it is, to participate in traditions and rituals because it’s the designated way that we show that we have loved. How strange it is to choose to love someone after they’re gone.

They say that funerals are for the living, and I think there’s some truth to that. Our loved ones can hardly know what their brothers wrote or what their nieces sang, but I don’t believe that the “survived by”s would choose to pick themselves up from their grief if it were for their own sake. Sure, people grieve in different ways. Some people might find themselves compelled to write programs or cook for seven hours, but I think most people are more quieted by grief than invigorated. We choose to do these things for the ones that we love, and that isn’t negated by the fact that they aren’t here to experience it. Certainly if we can act in the name of ideals like honor or country, we can act in the name of our family after they’re gone. It’s love with no expectation of recognition, and there’s nothing more selfless than that.

I’m sitting in my aunt’s dining room with my family buzzing about, and I wonder what’s going to happen after the last car drives off. A quiet will settle over the house, and the girls will go to their separate bedrooms. Life will go on, but now there’s a military magnet on the refrigerator with an eagle’s wings spread wide. Knowing my family, they will continue to live in loving memory of my uncle, always trying to make a good man proud. My cousins will live on with the values ingrained in them, and my aunt will continue to raise them in the ways that he would’ve wanted. But I hope they find peace in the quiet. I hope they know they’ve done enough.

Tiffany Kajiwara

Tiffany Kajiwara graduated from Calvin in 2022 with majors in literature and writing. Now, she continues to live in Grand Rapids and works at Baker Academic Publishing as a marketing assistant. In her free time, she enjoys crocheting, thrifting, and psychoanalyzing cartoon characters.