Stagnant Grief (Camp)

My great uncle died quickly, but not exactly suddenly, of stomach cancer during the height of a global pandemic. We knew it was coming, but it came faster than we would have liked. Most of us were unable to see him before he died.

His life moved slowly, he appreciated and acknowledged every moment. Through a giant corner window overlooking a quiet stream he watched beavers and foxes and birds live out their lives and then he carved them, lovingly, from blocks of wood that he would bestow upon friends and family as gifts on holidays and special occasions. He hunted, surrounded by animals that did not fear him because he exuded peace. He walked through the woods for the sake of walking. He used his observations of nature and life to gently guide people toward the loving God in whom he believed. He took his time. But his funeral had a drive through.

Funerals in my family have always been big events with music and hugging and food. My first drive through funeral being for this man, whose patience and love and connection to the world around him so deeply influenced how I want to present my own masculinity to the world, was utterly surreal. My uncle’s connection to the world around him was tangible. His funeral felt segmented, disjointed, impersonal, rushed. Not like him at all. Not like us at all.

I’m sure at some point we’ll have a proper celebration of his life, but for now the process feels, as so much does right now, incomplete, halted, stagnant.

Rebekah is a trans masculine queer writer and filmmaker in northeast Ohio. They are the Director of Operations for the Short. Sweet. Film Fest. and the kitchen manager for The Side Quest bar in Lakewood. You can find some of their critical work relating to film and television on their website, rebekahcampfilms.com.