A Common Pornography_ A Memoir - Kevin Sampsell [52]
The Viewing
Dad died a couple of days later and I drove up to Kennewick.
The day before his burial, I went to the funeral home to see Dad in his coffin. I went with Dad’s sister Evelyn and her husband, Rolando. I remember meeting Evelyn a couple of times when I was a kid but I had never met Rolando before. They lived around Washington, D.C., most of my childhood and there was some tension on Dad’s side of the family because Rolando was black.
Despite the early disapproval of others, they have been married for more than fifty years and have several children and grandchildren. I heard that Dad’s family didn’t like to advertise that they had a mixed marriage among them. I don’t recall Dad ever mentioning Rolando.
One of Evelyn and Rolando’s children became an airplane pilot though and that fact became worthy of mention for Dad when he talked with others. “My nephew is a pilot for that airline,” he would say, as if he had some hand in this success.
Evelyn is very religious and as we walked into the funeral home she was quietly praying and making the sign of the cross. Rolando, a large man with a kind nature, gently touched her back as they walked. Some piped-in music greeted us in the room that kept Dad’s coffin. It was the beginning of viewing hours and I was a little surprised that there was no one else there. Evelyn and Rolando stood back and prayed as I looked closely at my father. His hands looked thin and smudged with spots, as if they had been flattened in some sadistic way. His head was like a skull with fake waxy skin molded around it. I thought I’d see some kind of evidence of the brain aneurysm that finally killed him, but I didn’t know what to look for. What little hair he had was swept across his scalp like the faint suggestion of a haircut. His forehead was the only thing that looked strong and real. I looked at him for a few minutes, wondering if I could see myself, but I couldn’t. I moved my hand to his head and watched my fingers rest on his forehead. I petted his forehead and thought how strange it was to touch my father this way. I started to cry a little, though I didn’t want to. My sniffling gave me away and Evelyn came to my side and touched my arm lightly. She started to talk about how he was in Heaven and that God was taking care of him now, or something like that. I was more annoyed than comforted by her. I looked down at his chest. He was dressed in a dark blue suit with a blue-and-silver tie and the kind of light blue button-up shirt that he would sometimes wear while working in the yard. His chest looked wide but caved in. I stared there, where his heart would be, and watched for any movement. Any sign of a soul.
No Eulogy
The next day, toward the end of my dad’s funeral service, the priest asked if anyone wanted to say some words or share a fond memory of my dad. I have not attended many funerals in my life, but I know that this is usually the most emotional and interesting part of the service. Some people think that God lets you watch your own funeral to see what people say before he takes you up to Heaven or gives you to Satan or whatever.
There was an awkward moment when no one approached the podium. Then one of the two older nuns at the service went up and started talking about how helpful my dad was. “Whenever we needed to use a truck, John was always willing to help,” she said.
In his last several years, my father was an usher at the church. I think he even did it in his wheelchair for a while. Most of the priests and nuns and churchgoers knew him. A few days before the funeral, someone from the parish told my mom that the church, which holds about 150 people, would probably be full for the funeral. There were about 30 people there.
As the nun talked more about my dad, she shifted from “John was always there for the church” to “John was also a family man who loved his wife and children.” Even under the roof of the church where I