Ok, so just the title makes me giggle. No, I'm really not any better at dealing with loss than anyone else. But I did pass the class, and I learned a lot. I thought I'd share a piece of my final paper. I stretched the rules of the assignment a little to allow the creative writing. But it was worth it. This is the bulk of my paper for the cultural portion of my classwork. We all had to research a group, write a paper about their beliefs and present a summary in class. Mine was Buddhists.

I'm always of mixed emotions about this type of assignment. It's good to get exposure, and everyone was very respectful and appreciative of the group they researched. I <3 Buddhism, though it has some very difficult lessons for me about letting go.

But I also wonder how much good it does to have a five minute summary of such a wide ranging and variable topic. As long as noone thinks this is the end of the story, I suppose it's ok. But I also wonder if maybe it's better to train people to ask questions instead. Respectful, polite and curious questions. Not everyone will answer, I know. Some people are harder to get to know than others, some cultures are harder to get to know than others. But enough rambling, this is a long post as is. I'm not attaching the whole paper since there's other stuff that I don't think is as interesting. If you want to see the whole thing drop me a line, I'll email you the PDF. The story is a little heavy handed for pure fiction, welcome to the joys of writing for your audience. I might rework this to be a real short story one of these days.

Grandfather was not doing well now. Auntie told me not to worry, that he was a good man, who had brought much peace to the world. His kamma was good and so he would be reborn to a happier place. That the monks who sat and chanted were helping him accept the transition, to let go of this place and move on to the next. I thought a lot about this as I brought water for everyone to drink and wash with. I had not seen anyone dying before, and so everything was very strange now. Mother was sewing saffron colored fabric into a monk's robe. I asked her what it was for and she told me that it was just in case grandfather became a naked peta after his death, a hungry ghost. We would offer the robe to the monks, and then transfer the good deed to grandfather, and he would no longer be naked. But this confused me, since auntie said that grandfather would be reborn into a better life. I ran from the chant and incense filled house, to think. The words of the monks followed me for a long time: “All kinds of beings surely come to death, they have always died, will always die, in the same way I shall surely die, doubt about this does not exist in me.”

When I came back the monks had gone for the day and the house was quiet. Grandmother was sitting next to grandfather's bed. She held his hand and told him softly – 'be at peace my love, my light. Do not worry about us. We are strong with your love, with all you have built for us. You have lived a life of great credit, and we are honored by your deeds. You can go. You can go. Do not worry about us.' It sounded like a prayer to me, though not one I had ever heard before. The sadness in her voice made me start to cry, and my brother pinched my arm, hard. I yelped in surprise and he hissed in my ear “Do not make this any harder for him! He needs to focus on his next life. What we do now can make it much worse for him! If you cannot let go then go away!” He was about to scold me more, but then my mother called for us and I ran to her.

She asked me to warm more water for grandfather's bath and for my brother to find him clean clothes. I cried the whole time, because I did not want to lose grandfather. His stories made me laugh, and he always held me on his lap and sang to me when I was sad. He could do magic tricks, and he had not yet taught me how to do the best ones! I became angry then, and almost spilled the large bowl of warm water I was carrying. Mother asked me what was wrong and I tried to explain. She hugged me, and told me that it was ok to be sad. When we become attached to people in our life, it could hurt very much to lose them.

She explained that if I could learn to accept that death comes because of birth, then it would hurt a little less. While we bathed grandfather she told me a story of when the Buddha was a young man and he rode in a chariot around the city outside the palace. He saw a sick man, and an old man, and a dead man. These were the three revelations for the Buddha, who was young and strong and healthy. He asked - how did this happen? How could this be? His chariot driver explained that this was what happened to everything. We are born, and so we must get sick. We are born, and so we must get old. We are born, and so we must eventually die and be reborn again. This is true for all things on the earth, there is no escaping the pain of this truth. And then the Buddha and his driver saw a holy man, and the Buddha asked, who is that man, who sits so quietly? What is he doing? His driver answered, he is a holy man, one who had turned his life into a search for enlightenment, he is looking for a way to be free of the sadness of existing. Grandfather had been following the story, and told me how the Buddha decided then to become a holy man, to look for ways to be free of the attachments of life. His gift to us was discovering the path to nirvana, the freedom from the endless cycle of birth and rebirth within a life.

After we made grandfather comfortable and left the room mother asked me several times, do you understand, my daughter? We do not wail or weep beside your grandfather because we want to help him let go of his attachments to us and this life. We burn incense and chant prayers for him so that all his senses will be engaged in moving on. We must accept his passing, and release our own attachments to him so that he has the best rebirth possible. His death offers us a chance to find our own enlightenment, to examine our own lives and see what more we have to accomplish. What you feel now is exactly what you need in order to heal, but you need to be quiet in order to hear what those feelings have to teach you. You must give them space, and not lose yourself in your weeping. Now go, and check on your grandfather. Speak to him of the good things you have done today, and let him know that you do these things in his honor, because he taught you well how to be a good person. And remember, death is not the end of things. It is a change, from one place to another, from one life to another. Ask your grandfather if he knows where he will go next. Ask if he has seen any signs yet, as some people can be blessed in this way.

The monks returned the next day to sing their prayers again. Sometimes they sat silently. Sometimes one or another of them would again converse with grandfather. They seemed to speak to him often, often of his life and accomplishments. Once they had asked if he preferred burial or cremation when he finally passed on. Grandfather asked which one Buddha had chosen, and the monk said that either was appropriate. He reassured grandfather that it was a matter of preference alone, since by then he would no longer be in this body, grandfather's soul would have moved on to the incorporeal world and would be awaiting reincarnation in the next life. Grandfather said he wanted a burial service and the monk spent awhile talking to father before he left that day. I wanted to ask one of the monks how I would know my grandfather when he came back, but they started chanting again and I had to stand still and listen.

I often heard grandfather having discussions with father, or mother, or grandmother. Once he called my brother in and spoke to him for almost an hour before strength left him and he slept through the rest of the day and the entire night. I wondered what these hushed conversations meant. Sometimes I heard prayers, and sometimes laughter or soft tears. One day it was my turn, and I sat beside my grandfather as he explained to me that he was very sorry that he could no longer teach me any more magic tricks, but he knew that I was a clever little girl, and I would learn many more on my own after he was gone. He pointed to one of his many books and told me to take it with me back to my room. He asked me if I had any questions, but I was too shy to ask. I shook my head and left to do my homework, after I gave him one more hug, of course. He no longer felt the way he used to, but I remembered one of the monks explaining to grandmother that it is only when we bring forward the memory of how someone used to be that we are pained by the comparison. By letting go of any expectations we can avoid the pain of losing those expectations. So I tried.

Then one morning, grandfather did not wake up. I watched as my family worked to bathe him, and dress him. First Grandmother touched him very gently on the crown of his head. Then she took his favorite watch off his wrist and gave it to my father. Then she took his wedding ring and placed it in her pocket. My brother had gone to summon the monks back to the house. While I folded a cotton sheet into the bottom of the casket I asked my auntie why grandfather was dressed so simply, plain white pants, a crisp white shirt, bare feet. She responded that he was dead now, and could carry nothing but his kamma with him into his new life. We would honor the body he left us out of respect for the life that he shared with us, and our good deeds would reflect well on him, but there was no need for anything more.

When grandmother deemed him ready, my father gently lifted grandfather from his bed and placed him in the simple coffin next to the altar he had prepared. It too was simple. A statue of the Buddha, smiling from his lotus flower. A picture of grandfather, still strong and healthy, his wrinkled smile reaching out to me. As people arrived to visit grandfather for the last time some of them added to this altar, fragrant flowers, or a stick of incense. They came and told grandfather of some good deed they had done in his name, a donation perhaps, or a caring conversation with someone else. One old woman, a friend of his from school I think, said she had been up chanting all night with another old friend of theirs, who would also die soon. She sat and listened to the chanting for grandfather for a long time.

Most of us stood and either chanted or listened, depending on whether we knew the prayers. When the monks arrived we could follow them – standing when they stood, sitting when they sat, letting the prayers carry our thoughts. They recited Dhamma teachings – the truths of Buddha's journey into enlightenment. The head monk spoke softly about what he had learned from speaking with grandfather, how much love he had for his family, and how we had benefited from his example and how he had benefited from our many good deeds. He thanked my mother and grandmother when they presented him with the robes my mother had sewn, a neatly folded bundle of cheery yellow fabric amidst the pure white and deep somber colors of the gathered people.

We stayed there, the house open to all who would come and visit with grandfather for the rest of that day and all the next, since some of his friends were father away than our city. Those who came stood before his altar with their hands clasped and bowed deeply to him. Or even just stood in silence for a moment with him. Everyone was somber, quiet, even peaceful. My oldest brother, who was far away in school, would not be able to come before we buried grandfather. But he had promised to come to the third memorial service, which should happen closer to break, a little more than a month from now. When I got bored and fidgety, my mother sent me to make tea for everyone, or to go play in the back yard. I overheard my auntie and my grandfather's friend at one point, talking about how it was good to hear children playing, to be reminded that the wheel turns, and there is happiness in the world too.

The third morning we dressed in clean white clothes, sealed the casket and took it to the hearse which would take grandfather to the cemetery. Mother explained to my brother and I that we would walk slowly behind the hearse, and be silent. We were to think about everything we had seen, but questions would have to wait until later. This was the last service we would do for our grandfather, and we were to behave ourselves so that he could be proud of us. When we arrived at the cemetery we would have the opportunity to speak one last time to grandfather, to tell him about some good thing that we had done, and dedicate it to him. There would be a pitcher of water, and as we spoke we were to pour a small amount over our index finger. I tried to ask mother why we would do such a thing, but she told me it was a reminder of another story from the Buddha's life and I would have to wait until she could tell me the whole thing.

I walked with my family the whole way to the cemetery, even though my feet hurt and the sun became too warm and I wanted my father to carry me. I was silent, thinking about how I was supposed to be radiating loving-kindness to my grandfather, wherever he was now, to help his next birth be even better than this one had been. I thought about how earlier grandmother and auntie talked about how grandfather had been a good man, perhaps a little too attached to this world and his family, but a devout Buddhist and virtuous indeed. How could someone want better than that, I wondered. What else was there in life besides family? Besides being comfortable? Besides being good?

I wanted to ask my mother, or one of the monks walking alongside us, but mother had said that questions would have to wait. I knew there would be other opportunities. Grandmother had already started planning the first memorial service, to be held this weekend. The next would be in just a few weeks, then the vague plans for what we would do when my eldest brother could return to celebrate his grandfather's life and honor his memory. He might know the answers to some of my questions as well, since he was in school and had read many stacks of books. Or he would be brave enough to visit the monks with me, and ask the questions I was too shy to ask. I kept my silence as we lowered grandfather's coffin into the ground, and even the whole way home.

I looked at the book of magic tricks grandfather had given me and thought about the funeral. A few monks had come with us, but it had been Father who did most of the talking. The smell of incense was still strong, even in my room, and I think I slept for awhile. I know I awoke curled up around my book. I wondered if someday I would have a grandchild, and whether, if I did, she would want to learn silly magic tricks from her grandmother.