Visitation Visitation

“What did you receive?” my sister whispers to me as we enter the funeral home. We brush the snow off of our coats and hang them in the small cloakroom. Signs with the name “Darlington” direct us to the left.

“I was in their kitchen. It’s funny, I was only there two or three times…it must have been 2005 I went back to. The summer before my senior year.”

When she died, the shining tangle of memories and connections that surrounded my not-quite mother-in-law was released. As the threads were severed, each memory found its way home to the person who helped create it. Our shared moments were given back to us.

We receive these returned gifts as bursts of travel with no warning and often no context. I found myself, a present-day middle-aged mother of two, suddenly back in Susan’s suburban kitchen in another city. My boyfriend of the past year was making a sandwich while everyone chatted. I was 21, and we were discussing my upcoming move from residence to an off-campus apartment.

“It’s about ten minutes from Oliver’s place, we have most of our furniture already…”

Susan popped up from the table and rushed out of the room. I knew a practical gift was soon to follow. She was constantly moving and always claimed that teaching had kept her young. Since retiring, she frequented garage sales and I knew Oliver fondly considered her a bit of a hoarder.

She returned to the room with a box. “Do you need flatware? I have four matching table settings and the organizer to keep them in. Any other kitchen things?”

She placed the tray of cutlery in front of me and I picked up a butter knife.

The memory ended there, and I returned to the present day. I knew I’d soon find an obituary with visitation details.

Two decades have passed since that simple kitchen memory.

When we left his mom’s place that weekend, my travel bag was full of forks, knives, and spoons, as well as a couple of spatulas and a promise she’d bring more when she next visited.

“Just get settled and tell me what else you need, dear, I’m sure I have it around somewhere.”

I hugged her goodbye and we both glowed a little brighter, knowing this visit had bonded us in a way that was tiny, but a million tiny moments is what our tangled webs are made of.

In the spring of our senior year, Oliver and I got into different grad schools. We had one last summer together, free of classes, free to stay up late and play video games; but in separate cities we couldn’t make it work. I know we both carry connections that can never be erased, although we haven’t seen each other in the years since.

Over the years I moved apartments, met my husband, bought a house…and most of the kitchenware I was given ended up donated. Replaced by wedding registry items and vintage finds. But I’ve always kept a single butter knife. It somehow symbolizes a stable, giving family, generosity, and the freedom of being 21 and in love. All in one butter knife. No one but me knows its origin, and why it matches nothing else in the drawer. I use it sometimes for my toast, but I’m equally happy just knowing it’s there. If my web of memories and connections glow a little brighter when that knife is in my hand, no one around me notices.

Here, with my sister for company, we join the visitation receiving line.

“How are you doing with being here?” my sister asks me. “The last funeral you went to…”

It was my husband’s, two years ago.

Holding his hand in palliative care as he took his last breath, I travelled to the day we met. He was working in a bookstore and helped me find the books I was looking for. We chatted about popular YA novels. I had my bike helmet with me; he biked to work, too. I was embarrassed but not completely surprised when our hands touched at the checkout counter and a long, silvery thread floated between us. I was back the next day to buy more books.

I received these memories rapid fire, a slideshow of our years. I traveled to Europe with him, buying pain au chocolat in Paris, frites in Brussels and currywurst in Munich. I traveled to the day we bought our house. Later, I traveled to our living room, holding the books I bought on the day we met. I traveled to a random Thursday, walking the dog together and gossiping about the neighbours.

All too soon it was over, his strands were all cast off, his lifelong glow dimmed. Our kids weren’t old enough to travel yet but they caught glimpses of memories. One last chance for them to remember their father, gone too soon.

My sister can see me tearing up and puts her arm around my shoulder. She gives it a squeeze and then smooths my hair. In another moment, I see Oliver, whose eyes widen slightly when he sees me. He recognizes me, and is surprised. I struggle with doubt for a moment, feeling dumb: who goes to the funeral of a woman whose son she dated two decades ago?

In the next moment, I shake it off because the fact that I traveled is all the validation I need. However brief our time was, we had connected and I was given one last chance to visit her. I know I should be here. The same thing happened at my husband’s funeral: friends from as far back as elementary school appeared, describing how they’d traveled to a snowball fight they’d won together or a group project they’d procrastinated on.

Still awkward, but with tears drying and a new resolve, I face Oliver in the line. I can see he’s illuminated by all of the connections he’s making and memories he’s reliving. We start to shake hands and it transforms into a quick hug.

“I didn’t know if you’d know” he starts immediately. “I mean, thank you for coming. I think she would have traded me for you if she could have. How did you know–what did you receive?”

“She gave me the forks and knives. She was a good mom.”

He looks at me, confused for a split second before smiling. “The forks and knives. One of a dozen sets she held onto, probably. I don’t know how we’re going to clean her place out.” He indicates his two brothers beside him in line and we move down, greeting them next, offering our condolences.

I don’t know anyone else at the visitation so my sister and I politely admire the flowers and sign the guest book, chatting quietly. As we turn to go, Oliver approaches.

He clasps my hand in a goodbye handshake. “Thank you, again, so much, for coming. She would have loved that you’re here.”

“I do still use one of the knives–I could never bring myself to get rid of it. It was good to see her again, for a minute, in the kitchen. You were there too, you know.”

“It was a good summer” he says softly, reaching out to put his other hand on top of mine. Today, I am not embarrassed or surprised when we draw apart and a long, silvery thread floats between us.