Pay me to cry
I got back from the hospital late last night and we sat on the front porch to enjoy the breeze. I had received a text from one of my friends who was attending the memorial of my friend’s son saying that the firemen’s tribute for the boy was heart wrenching, but it was lightened up by the second line walk to Witt’s Inn afterwards. I had been sitting in the ICU waiting room with my aunt the whole time my mom was in surgery and we discussed everything from where my mom wants to be buried to gardening. I found out that when we were all over at my aunt’s house after my beloved grandmother died, that one of our cousins had gotten tweaked because we were all laughing and cutting up.
I told T that there had been a second line for our friend’s son and she said that was so good and it made her happy to hear. T said that in Eastern Europe, particularly around the mountainous areas of Montenegro, there are old women called “narikace” (“weepers”) who are paid to cry at funerals.
She thinks it is a pretty intriguing job to be paid to show up at a funeral and cry like there is no tomorrow. What happens is the crier comes and wails and wails and gets everyone so worked up to a frenzied pitch of crying and once they summit emotionally, then the crier backs off and the crowd begins to drink and party and carry on.
Now that is a funeral. I love this idea. When I die, I want people to put a boombox at top volume with Amy Winehouse singing Valerie and dance like there’s no tomorrow. And afterwards to laugh and to cut up and to cry from the joy of being alive.