I wish the horrors would have spared you

Of all the strange details I remember from growing up in a funeral home perhaps the most childlike was my fascination with the memorial cards. I remember them being delivered in small cardboard boxes and my father opening them with a giant letter opener. As a kid obsessed with baseball cards, thanks to my maternal grandfather's collector habits, I always met the occasion with an eagerness that, upon further reflection, had to have been extremely off-putting. Yet, much as I loved ripping open packs of Topps, Beckett, and Upper Deck baseball cards at my grandparents' kitchen table, I felt a similar rush seeing what each box of memorial cards held inside. What biblical image would be on the front? What psalm was chosen for the back? What was the person's full name and date of birth?

I remember holding these in my hands and trying to draw some connection between what was printed on the paper and the person's material life. Even though I had to assume every choice was made hastily in a completely random fashion, I still found myself obsessed with these details. I'm sure some people have psalms and bible verses on lock in their heads, and maybe they know exactly which pastel-colored version of Jesus curing lepers or Veronica pushing her veil to Jesus' face they like best for a moment such as this but, callous as it may be, I'm assuming it's all a bit tossed together from a family already overburdened by the process of grief.

In my office, I have a stack of memorial cards in my desk drawer. It's not substantial—I never took one from a funeral I wasn't meaningfully attending—but putting a new one on the top always elicits a strange form of sadness. A literal trading card set of the people in my life with their stats there for me to peruse at my leisure. Maybe I'll read a religious text in a way that doesn't make me bristle for a change, as I too can find comfort in the words that don't reflect my ideology but do convey my hopes for those that hold them dear. Yet, the biggest thing I notice now, as I fan them out and look at each one, is how different they all look.

Ones from over twenty years ago are frail, with ink that's faded into the paper like a loose newspaper clipping that's been retained but unpreserved. The latest is sharp and laminated, forgoing the biblical tributes for a black-and-white photo of the person. Some aren't even memorial cards at all. I have guitar picks with the person's face on them, business cards, and PEZ dispensers, all little momentos of something bigger than the actual object themselves.

As I add another to the collection this morning, I was jostled by the fact that the last item I added was for someone who died a year ago today. These neighboring dates that once felt abstract and meaningless now share a link that, as best as I can tell, only I'm aware of. Two people from disparate walks of life, Venn diagrams that never overlapped, resting in tribute together. I don't know if that's beautiful or if I'm just the right level of vulnerable to find meaning in it but, if the rest of this post has told you anything, I've never been one to not give abstractions a little too much weight.

I was hoping to be more active with this newsletter this year and, for that, I'm sorry. While the intention is always genuine, the realities of the world often get the best of me. But I will have more of these coming soon with a mix of personal updates, music recommendations, and things that blend those things together. Until next time, may the horrors spare you, and may we each find a way forward in the face of unrelenting agony.