Cappucin Catacombs

The skeletons hung from strings, and Hannah wondered aloud whether they were smiling when they died since their mouths looked like they were.  And where were their noses?  Why did they disintegrate but the rest of the body did not?  We walked the corridor of skeletons, pausing to look at one in a coat, another with one shoe still on, an anomalous one with a nose intact.  One area was for dead children, even two babies in cradles, skeletons, tiny.

Top fifteen things to do in Palermo listed these catacombs, and I thought the kids would be interested (though maybe not Mary).  Hannah and I didn't feel freaked out being surrounded by these skeletons (likely not the right term), but fascinated.  We wondered how they died, who buried them, whether they had been covered like mummies at one point.

But mostly, mostly we talked about death and what we thought.  I tell the kids, You can cremate me, spread my ashes in Scituate, and then go there for a walk on the beach and an ice cream at Wilbur's when you feel like it.  But then, I tell them, if you want to do something else, like a cemetery stone, do that.  Do whatever you like.  Hannah brought this up.  I told her it was going to be a long time before she was dealing with my remains.

She wondered how the children had died, and we speculated that they were sick and didn't have the medicine and care we have now.  She wanted to know what happens to the body after it dies, who takes care of it, if it's gross to clean a dead body.  I imagined it an honor, seeing the dead out of this world, onto the next space, whatever space that is.

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I was remembering a book I read last summer (Claire of the Sea Light) in which one character's job was at a funeral home, preparing the bodies for services and burials, and this character showed compassion and care for these people she cleaned and prepared, and so I like to think of people with this job in real life having this same reverence for the dead.  (On my better days, I have reverence for each teenager I teach...so perhaps these folks have such reverence on their better days...)

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Joyce Funeral Home is in Waltham.  I've been to countless wakes there.  For at least the last two decades one man is a presence there; I imagine he's is of the Joyce family himself.  It took me a while to get the courage to talk to him.  His is a confident, reserved, comforting presence.  I'm not sure how he holds the confidence, reserve, and comfort all at the same time, but he does.  I see him stalwart for those mourning, a man in charge with a lovely affect, quiet and unobtrusive while still in charge and reliable.  He's the man you want in an emergency or in a time of grieving: he will take care of all the details without bothering you and figure out what you need.  When I've seen him outside the funeral home, I've tried to observe him on the sly, watching to see whether he's that same presence or whether he might laugh.  I see him smile, laugh, relax his shoulders.  I don't know him, but I admire him.

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Sebastian joined us: the others were already finished walking through while Hannah and I were about a third of the way through.  He added information about preserving the bodies -- the guy with the nose likely had been wrapped up -- and some scientific terms.  I asked him how he knew this stuff, and he said, "I don't know.  Books."

Hannah and I increased our pace and energy with Sebastian there, not rushing but preparing more to join the crew, the outside world (where they were waiting), the living.  The dead will always outnumber the living, I thought, and I thought of Ishtar when she threatens her dad that she will release all the zombies if her dad doesn't punish Gilgamesh for insulting her.  Her dad gives in.

I was so afraid of death when I was a kid.  Maybe all kids are.  Hannah didn't sound scared; mostly she was curious.  It was perhaps a strange place to have some quality time with a seven-year-old. 

But I liked it.