Their House.

In my family when someone dies there is a wake, there is a funeral mass, there is a burial. There is public grieving and remembering. A group of people gather with one person on their minds. There is collective sorrow. There are chairs or pews to hold those who are too sad to stand. There is music. People speak kindly of the deceased. There is ritual.

When Chris died there was none of that.

Yesterday, by putting together this montage, I attended the wake and funeral of my mother-in-law, seven months after her death. I wept for all that has happened, and for all that has not happened.

It is true that grief begets grief. You read about someone dying, a stranger to you, or even a friend or relative of a friend , and suddenly their loss becomes your loss. The death of someone you love comes rising to the surface, and you feel yourself become undone.

Steven and his brother, today on the 20th of March, hand over their childhood home. The house they grew up in will no longer belong to them. It has been sold. There will be new cars in the driveway, there will be a new family living inside. A man and his wife will move in, look around, and feel comfort in owning a new house. They will feel the desert heat. They will open the sliding glass doors and walk out into the yard. They will sit around the hearth on a chilly desert evening and they will consider themselves home.

On our way to Santa Fe last Christmas we stopped at Chris's house. It was a very sad place to be. Steven had someone come in to repair the fireplace. Several men worked for two days repairing it. Yesterday, as I was looking for pictures, I noticed that so much living happened around that fireplace. So much living.

For my husband and for my brother-in-law Mark, I love you, and I share in your grief. This house will always be your home, no matter who lives in it.

Look at the pictures. How could it not?

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