The Beats of Death: My Story of An Emily Dickinson Poem by Quinn Nissen Danielson

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There are three stages to the process of Catholic mourning. First is the wake – a

celebration of friends and family sharing memories. It creates an image for loved ones to hold

onto after they are gone. Second is the funeral – everyone gathers at the church to accept the

death of their physical presence. Third is the burial – “ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” The body

lowered into the ground represents that their physical life has ended, but their soul will live on

forever. It is all regimented – every step must be taken. The events within services are strict:

standing, sitting, and kneeling in a known rhythm. At the funeral, only the priest can talk.

Although his words may be different, he has done it all before. If cremated, the ashes cannot be

spread but must be contained in the ground. There are only a few days after death to prepare all

the steps. My mom said the routine distracts mourners from their grief. 

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,

Mourners to and fro

Kept treading – treading – till it seemed

That sense was breaking through – 

Babcia (grandma) knew all the steps and tried to prepare them before she died. The clothes she’d wear to say goodbye at the wake – were already laid out. She had her own eulogy and obituary drafted. After death, the family immediately scheduled the wake venue, bought hordes of flowers, put her death announcement in the newspaper, scheduled the funeral, scheduled the reception, and made sure everyone knew when and where the events were taking place and that everyone gets paid. Mom was pulling her hair out: Uncle Tad wanted everything impossibly perfect, Uncle Jim couldn’t remember to buy seltzer for the reception – at least Uncle Peter helped (almost a generation older, he was always the outlier). My mom went up the day after Baci died and I joined her a few days later. She was exhausted and certainly distracted. Only a few hours after my arrival – I was too. 

And when they all were seated,

A Service, like a Drum

Kept beating – beating – till I thought

My mind was going numb – 

The room was blue and white, all colors soft and light – the usual funeral home. I saw the

posters Mom had made of family pictures centering around Baci. She told me she spent every

second of free time since the death making those posters. Uncle Tad – I always viewed as this big

tough mechanic – sat in a chair in the corner with his head in his hand. When he looked up, I saw

that his face was wet. Mom said to prepare myself, she knew I’d hate this. For three hours we

stood in a row against the wall with people I’d never met passing through an endless line. Each

shook our hand and repeated the dead phrase: “I am sorry for your loss.” Especially the first

three words, “I am sorry” – a phrase with no feeling.

One woman at the service broke my trance. She wore a sequined jacket and didn’t have

the straight-sympathetic face of the rest. She was a fountain of tears, and trembled as she

rambled on about what a wonderful woman Babcia was. She was her old Bingo partner, the one who helped Baci earn the title “Gamblenor” (her name was Eleanor). 

And then I heard them lift a Box

And Creak across my Soul

With those same Boots of Lead, again,

Then Space – began to toll,

Standing in front of the hearse, the men who worked at the funeral home gave us orders. I

was going to help carry Baci’s casket into the church. A man said, “Men on the ends, women in

the middle.” In total, six had to carry the casket. Six, and I could still feel heavy weight. We had to walk in sync – like a march. Each of us wore black leather shoes. For the men it was dress

shoes – the women boots. The moment we enter the church, the smell of incense suffocates, and

a crowd of people rose. We set the coffin on the wheeled display – it was rolled front

and center. In one motion, as if rehearsed, everyone sat down.

As all the Heavens were a Bell

And Being, but an Ear,

And I, and silence, some strange Race

Wrecked, solitary, here –

A woman sat beside the altar singing a song that was supposed to be grand and peaceful – my ears almost bled. The priest did not speak personally of Babcia, only touching on her involvement in the church. His speech was restricted to a heavenly manner. We asked if he could include personal details of Babcia, but he refused. Uncle Peter offered to say a few words – still, the priest said no. One of Babcia’s favorite pastimes was church bingo, and he mentioned how he shut that down. He hinted at how crazy the idea of church bingo was, insinuating it was sinful. I asked my mom after if Babcia liked that priest – she didn’t. He rambled on and there was nothing to distract me. I was isolated in a room full of people, as a woman wailed, and another waved the nauseating incense. Still, we sat, kneeled, and stood in unison.

And then a Plank in Reason, broke,

And I dropped down, and down –

And hit a World, at every plunge

And Finished knowing – then –

Halfway through, I wasn’t sure if I could last until the end of the service – but something broke the rhythm. “Aaayyyaatttt” was shouted, the sound echoed from wall to wall. It was the voice of my childhood friends' third triplet. The yell was followed by his giggles and his sister Kateri scolding him as usual. I laughed when I heard that – Lucien always broke the mold. My mom squeezed my arm and nodded to where they were sitting. We both had big grins. I looked behind me at Uncle Tad, who had been crying all the past few days, was smiling down at the floor. During the reception, I sat with Kateri and Lucien’s family. I hadn’t seen them in years before Baci’s funeral.

I hadn’t met Sandy before Babcia’s death; she was one of my mom’s cousins. She had Cerebral Palsy and told me how she had just been surfing on the Hawaiian waves. Before the end of the reception, she made sure to tell me to get everything I wanted out of life. I didn’t go to Babcia’s burial – her soul was at the reception after the funeral. It was not a cemented step of the Catholic mourning process, but as far as I am concerned – that was her salvation.

Editor's note: The piece above references Emily Dickinson's poem "280" as published in The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson edited by Thomas H. Johnson (published in 1969 through Back Bay Books). You can read the entire poem here.

Quinn Nissen Danielson is a current student at Trinity College Dublin studying English literature. She has been published once before in Cats Magazine. Quinn writes fiction and nonfiction pieces. Her instagram is @quinn_nissen