hugging the pillow & pallbearer
pallbearer: a person who helps to carry the coffin at a funeral; also : a member of the escort or honor guard of the coffin who does not actually help to carry it
I woke up in bed on Saturday morning in the arms of a friend. It was comfortable and safe, warm and gentle. Like hugs from Mom, only better. We chatted for a bit and giggled like little kids. Lots of smiles. I’m not sure if life ever gets better than moments like that. No worries, no stress, and no drama clouding the moment.
After he left, I received a call from my friend Tiffany. Her mother, Sharon Ann Cesario, had passed away. She phoned to ask if I would be able to make it to the wake and the funeral.
Many of you understand how much of a problem I have with the custom of ‘the wake’. I dislike the ritual. But rituals serve a purpose for many, and so because Tiff has been a part of my life for so many years, I understood that she needed me.
I spent the rest of the day Saturday crying. I had tickets to go see Judy Tenuta, but I couldn’t bring myself to leave the house. I felt heavy. How did I get from such an incredibly happy morning to a dark and heavy evening?
I woke up Sunday with a smile, until I realized my arms weren’t around him. They were around a cold pillow. The bedroom was cold and damp. I felt hollow. My apartment seemed so still.
He wasn’t there.
Damn, I wish he could have been there.
Sunday and Monday are still a blur. I know I was at the funeral home all day Sunday, and stayed with the family that night. And when I arrived on Monday, Tiff asked me if I would be a pallbearer.
Me.
She asked me to carry her mother to her grave.
I’m still in awe and supremely honored that she asked me.
—
Sharon Ann Cesario was one of those woman who was as tough as steel when and as gentle as a kitten. The very first time I met her at her house, Tiff introduced me as ‘Pete from the store’. Tiff and I worked at the Walgreen’s in the Harlem - Foster Shopping Plaza for a number of years together.
I think I said something like ‘Nice to meet you Mrs. C’, and her quick wit (which I’d come to know soon after that) immediately kicked in as she said:
‘If you call me Mrs. C again, I’ll stick my foot in your ass.’ and she proceeded to laugh so heartily that I burst into laughter with her. She put her arm around me, and immediately I was family. From then on, it could have been years since I’d seen her, and we were still tight.
Sharon, or Shar as I remember calling her, was one of those Chicago women of Italian descent that I love to be around. Family and Food = love in their world. Shar always asked me how my family was, and if I’d eaten anything. And no matter how I’d answered the second question, she’d still ask me if I wanted some coffee and offer me some food.
She raised Tiff as a single mom, which knowing Tiff the way I do, couldn’t have been an easy thing. Shar was a hairdresser, the only real therapists in this world, and she had the knack of listening well and saving up every detail until the next time you spoke. She was also a dedicated Walgreen’s employee for many years, which means something truly special to those of us who worked at Walgreen’s for many years.
But most telling of all, she was the kind of woman you didn’t need more than a cup of coffee and a comfortable chair to hang out with. For hours and hours we could talk about everything in the world. She had a fascinating perspective on life.
As I sit here, writing with a tear in the corner of each eye, I know she’s somewhere in heaven, asking about everyone’s family and trying to get them all to eat something.
I miss you Shar. But I can’t wait to catch up with you when my time comes.
I’ll bring the sweets if you make the coffee.
And we’ll talk.