My thoughts for this post started last week as I read the latest post from Marian Beaman titled “Little Girl and a Coffin in the House.” She recounts the experience she had in the 1940s when her grandfather died and the showing was inside his home. She saw him in his coffin. In fact, she sat quietly in the same room with him while others paid their respects. She was five. It was an interesting story about Marian and the times and practices surrounding death. Here’s a link:
https://marianbeaman.com/2025/09/17/little-girl-coffin-house/
I noticed that many of the comments that the readers left were “I never saw a dead body” or “I saw one only once,” etc. This is what they drew from it.
I thought about it, too. When my dad died, it was only a memorial service; there was no viewing. There wasn’t one for my grandfather, Billie, either. I was alright with that; I didn’t want to see them lifeless. In fact, I really didn’t want to see anyone lifeless; ever. It made me uncomfortable.
Fast forward to 1986 and I was dating Dennis. He was in banking, and the wife of one of his customers had passed away. He wanted to go to the viewing at the funeral home.
“Do you mind if I stay away from the casket?” I asked.
“No, of course not,” he replied, and I sighed with relief.
We arrived and mingled with other people coming to pay their respects. I knew Dennis would make his way towards the casket at some point, but he was still chatting. The plan was for me to hang back by the heavy draperies; maybe look distracted.
Suddenly, the widower, Walt, came out of nowhere and exclaimed, “Dennis! I’m so happy you came to this, thank you!”
Dennis smiled and introduced me.
“Nice to meet you, Melanie,” and then he suddenly put his arms around Dennis and me both, and said, “Let’s go see Joanie!” and pulled us towards the front of the room.
I looked at Dennis with pleading eyes. He understood, but what could he do?
Up we walked, right up to the left side of the casket, where Walt stopped, and said, “Doesn’t she look lovely?”
We were standing near her face. I had been trying to look ANYWHERE but there, but I couldn’t delay it any longer.
I glanced at her. I had never met Joanie, so I wasn’t sure if she was looking good or not. There was makeup, but in all honesty, I saw a certain waxiness too. I think I was a little shocked at it all.
But what I really saw was how Walt was looking at her. Clearly, he had loved her. He wanted to share her with friends and family one last time; strangers, too.
It was then that I agreed wholeheartedly that she looked wonderful, and that’s all Walt needed. He was in mourning. He did not know about my hesitancy towards seeing the dead.
I definitely didn’t see my mother. In fact, she probably had the most unique memorial of all. At her request, it was on a boat, about three miles off of Miami. There was no casket as she had been cremated, and we scattered her remains over the Neptune Memorial Reef.
This is an artificial reef owned by Dignity Memorial. Those who choose cremation opt for their remains to be deployed to the Reef — by literally becoming a part of it. Families can also choose to scatter ashes over the reef, like we selected. Dignity then creates a memorial plaque, which they place underwater on the site with the loved one’s name and inscription.
Death isn’t easy on the living. Seeing it up close is well, startling. Many people don’t want to talk about it either.
Perhaps we can learn something from the Bhutanese people, who apparently contemplate death five times daily because such regular reflection can lead to a happier, more fulfilled life by “fostering gratitude and making one appreciate the present moment.” It’s an interesting philosophy to “normalize” death; to make us less afraid to see dead people and to talk openly about it.
So, I’m opening it up. Don’t be alarmed. I’ve just thought about my own death and final wishes. Mom’s resting place is perfect for her, but I think I want something on land. Right now, I vacillate between burial and cremation. I do like the idea of being outside, somewhere near trees; their leaves dropping nearby in the fall months while visitors come to see family or do grave rubbings.
If they walk my way, they may see an inscription on the gravestone from the first movie I ever saw in the theater: The Sound of Music. I’ve always carried those songs and lyrics with me. I was only five, at the beginning my life. It would be simple.
“She must have done some…thing good.”
I can hear those musical notes now, and even Christopher Plummer’s chuckle in the middle. I would love for people to walk away humming a song.
But no worries, please. I also know that “I have miles to go before I sleep.” (Robert Frost)
Leavingthedooropen.com 
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