A LITTLE MORE ORPHANED

I don’t know if it’s a tradition bigger than our little home town, but it’s customary here to post funeral notices at the post office.   I have no idea how this came to be a thing but it works well: everyone comes for their mail so the word gets out quickly and yet the post office lobby is usually a room you have to yourself when you’re there.   There have been a few times when I was glad to be alone when confronted with news of a sudden death, or the end of a long struggle with some terrible disease.  It allows for a private moment to adjust to the news.  Sometimes that’s important.

One such card caught me a little off guard not too long ago.  I saw the name and was thankful for a private moment or two to read the whole card and acknowledge the sadness I felt.  It wasn’t that I was surprised by the news – it just so happened that a few weeks earlier this gentleman and I had a conversation while he waited for his wife to do the grocery shopping.  I could clearly see his health was not good.  It seemed that he had aged twenty years since I had last seen him, although at most only a couple months time had passed since then.  He looked frail.  He had lost so much weight.

Our visit hadn’t been a long one, mostly because just the effort of speaking left him winded and I didn’t want to tire him.  The conversation had trended to life philosophies and although I don’t know if he used these exact words what I remember him saying is “I think I’ve run my race.”  I felt sadness then too: I’m not the kind of person who will argue against the truth, and we both knew he spoke the truth.

Still, the funeral card in the quiet of the Post Office lobby was a sad sight for me.  Another one is gone.  Again I felt just that little bit more orphaned.

Let me explain.

My own parents are both gone; I have been legally orphaned (if such a thing is possible at my age) for quite some time.  But as time goes by in this little home town the generation who are regularly passing away now are the parents of the people I went to school with.  The generation I was taught to respect as my elders when I was growing up, and who never lost that implied authority as I joined the work force myself.  Although my relationship grew to be more personal with many of them over time (especially with this fellow, he was always trying to sell the story that he was a grumpy old man when it was so evident he was just the opposite) they never lost that aura that they were older and wiser than me.

I wonder: does their passing bother me most because in the big picture their absence alters the fabric of our community’s life?  Or is the problem much more focussed - am I being forced to understand that as these wise ones go, others will have to step up and fill their shoes.  That would be my generation.  That would be me.  

Does being in the company of parents allow us to feel that we can continue to be followers, not leaders?  Can we still draw comfort that we are the protected ones, not be expected to do the protecting ourselves?  Is that why I feel a little more like an orphan with each and every funeral?  Is that why each of their deaths affects me on a personal level? 

It also has me wondering if it’s a comfort or a curse to spend a whole lifetime living in the same place, surrounded by the same people.  If my life had taken me away from this town would I have connected with people the same way?  Would I have built the kind of relationships with the people I’d met along the way to experience this same sense of loss when they died?  Would losing them leave me feeling slightly orphaned?  Or does it take an entire lifetime to create something so replete?

 I can tell you this, though: as uncomfortable as it is to feel orphaned, I’m kind of glad I’m a home town girl.