A Reflection on Death, Faith, and Chocolate Cake

I used to love going to Nebraska. We would drive the eight hours, never fly, and stop at Runza on both the way there and back, right at hour four. Thanks to a divorce I had three sets of Grandparents, all of which lived within a few miles radius. My mom’s parents were usually the first stop as their house could house us, my dad, cousins, aunts, and uncles, all under one charismatic roof. It was just so, charismatic that is. The house, as I remember it because I haven’t been there in years, had some sort of magic. The chairs recliner, the air crisp, the eggs and bacon always ready before we woke up.

The second stop was my dad’s dad and stepmom, both of which were just grandparents to me (I didn’t understand the family tree until much later). Their house perched on the left of a roundabout circle and the entryway always smelled like almonds and laundry detergent. The dining room has these miraculous chairs that roll and spin and are the farthest from the hell-adjacent modern stools my mother opted for. I’d sit there for hours in my pajamas, transferring water from blender to coffee maker to bowl to cup, as this pretend kitchen was fully equipped. Then, shortly after, I’d have to hide behind the banister as my brother pelted me with not a normal Nerf gun, but a grenade launching one. We both had decked out versions of our favorite toys at Oma and Popi’s.

The third and final stop on our trip would be my dad’s mom. She lived in a quaint little house with a squeaky door and a kitchen out of a cottage. Sometimes we caught fireflies outside in mason jars, watching them wriggle for a moment before letting their light fly back into the night sky. She kept little pocket square games on her coffee table; which I’d attempt to solve while our banana bread was in the oven.

This trip, these three stops, were made every Christmas and most summers or Thanksgivings’. Then it was just every Christmas. Then, well, I don’t remember the last time I went to Omaha. I guess the last two times have been funerals, so maybe I choose to forget. How long is the drive?

…

I used to go to a Catholic school. Christ the King; preK 3 and 4. It wasn’t a long spout, and my religiousness digressed when it did. I have the first communion wedding dress photo though—pretty much the only proof it was real at all. Being a toddler, I didn’t know or care to believe anything different than what my teachers and family told me. So I said Grace before dinner and thought of another dog during mass. When mom told me to pray for grandma, I did, and when my prayer didn’t work, I wondered what I had done wrong. 

Before we had gone to Church every holiday and an occasional Sunday. Then it was just Easter and Christmas. Then, well, I don’t remember the last time I went to church. I guess the last two times have been funerals, so maybe I choose to forget. What do you say when they offer the wine. Amen?

…

I used to love chocolate cake. Any cake was good, but something about chocolate—it felt a little more special. Vanilla is rather boring, isn’t it? Most kids would bring vanilla cake, sugar cookies, something of that likeness, but when it was chocolate cake, oh boy. What a glorious day! I felt like I had pulled one over on my mom every time, sneaking a third slice with crumbs stuck to my cheeks, un-sneakily. 

I would get chocolate cake at people’s birthday parties, for holidays, or maybe make some at a sleepover. Then we just wouldn’t get it much, but if it was there, you bet I’d be too. Then, well, I don’t remember the last time I had chocolate cake. I guess the last two times have been funerals, so maybe I choose to forget. Is it even my favorite anymore?

…

I left late, nearly 8 pm by the time our plane took off the runway. It was only an hour’s flight, so no need for movies or over the ear headphones. I read, only for half though, because I got scared having my light on was bothering the person next to me.

My hair was wet and drying unkempt but I didn’t have time to dry it before. I taught my Kettlebell class, the first one since being back from college, shoved pasta into my mouth, showered, and left. My brother met me having just finished work himself. Both exhausted, we ubered from the Omaha airport to a nearby hotel with AirPods in and promptly passed out.

I suppose the eggs were ready before we got up; given it’s a hotel breakfast and powdered eggs don’t take all that long. I ate carefully, trying not to spill anything on my dress that mom had ironed. Her and Dad met us then, to drive us to the church which was small and boiling with heat like an old kettle. 

“It’s pretty,” I said, referring to the stained glass.

“You don’t remember it?” Mom asked.

“No.”

Where we were, Sacred Heart, was apparently the very church; the Christmas one, the occasional Sunday and Easter. Makes sense, I thought. 

We sat in the rows, or pews, maybe that’s the proper name. I met my Dad’s uncle, aunt, neighbor, fraternity brother, cousin, etc. I got a prayer card but didn’t know what to do with it. I listened, unable to sing along or answer back as everyone else did. It felt kind of unorming, like I should have known. But why would I? I’m not religious.

I’m not religious because of this and that and bad and other. So, when the priest started with a welcoming speech for all genders, races, bodies, ages, sexualities, and political beliefs, I gathered that must be a newer thing. When the priest made joke after joke, laughing our way through the service, I didn’t know what to gather. When everyone held their hands in prayer looking upon the photo of my grandma, all having shared a token of their love, I had no hands to gather with. For my hands were bound up with my neighbors, instead of left to scrap the floor. 

I sang after that prayer—hallelujah like my grandma had wanted. I have sung many other places but the reception in the eyes of this crowd were unlike those places. Almost tuned to the acoustics, everyone was open and ambient. Tears heavy, but shared.

There was chocolate cake at the lunch after. Millions of desserts actually, but the cake is what caught my eye. It was thick and glumpy and looked like Ms. Trunchbolt’s. I got lunch, not the cake, and sat down with my family where we tried to eat; interrupted every minute or so with a goodbye or apology. 

I managed to finish my plate—still thinking of the cake while a cherry-eyed woman with some relation to me I forget, told me my grandma must have been so proud. I thanked her and against my better judgment, or so it seemed, grabbed a slice, weighing it in my hands against the shouldn’ts. Shouldn’t because it’s early. It’s early Addie, barely noon here and you’re on Denver time. Barley 11 then. Who eats cake like this before 11? 

But no, you aren’t like this anymore. You don’t weigh things anymore.

I took the plastic fork and took a bite, instantly knowing it was not the old church lady homemade goodness I thought it to be. It was Betty Crocker, some or other, with frosting so thick and canned it barely went down the throat. Damn it, I thought.

…

I drove my dad’s dad’s truck to my mom’s dad’s old house after; visiting the dead with the living. I weaved through the gated neighborhood, pulling into the house that used to house us, my dad, cousins, aunts, and uncles, all under one charismatic roof. As much as I thought I could visualize the charisma, the banister inside, the recliner chairs, the basement—the outside was displaceable. It seemed it could have been anywhere, in any neighborhood, at any time. 

“You remember it?” Popi asked.

“Definitely,” I said, driving off.

…

I guess I never realized how memories fade. First slowly, then to the point of no recognition, and finally, to nothing. It had been this no-recognition stage for a while now; for I could have driven past the house or turned a street too early. But never before had I been faced with nothing. Never before had I thought I could be in the presence of a memory, yet look at the bricks and entryway and lampost like a postcard. Nothing more than a setting up close.

It’s sad to me really; concretely knowing that I will never get to experience that house or that kind of Omaha trip again. Before my mom’s parents had passed away (that house’s owners) trips were already becoming less frequent. I had more sports, friends, plays, things; less enthusiasm for an eight hour drive. But through their loss, my dad’s mom’s as well, I lost more. I lost something I started to let go of myself. 

Maybe if I hadn’t played any part in the distance I’d have less of a gap now. Maybe I would be able to remember the good last trip, right prayer words, and chocolate cake. 

It is in that maybe, what if, almost. In the concept of belief, of not too much or just enough, that I find myself searching for some sort of faith. But faith in who? For who? I don’t think my faith could ever be catholicism or Christianity again but maybe I ought to allot some time to see what else there is.

It’s kind of juxtaposing, isn’t it? How we experience death and long for faith. Correlate endings and beginnings. Or is it really that so? I’ve found with death there is no option to avoid a new beginning. When someone dies, everything else is forced to continue on without them; missing a piece you could say. Functioning anew, like a refurbished car, we must try to run for the sake of it. Our parts still grounded in the past, yet forced to function by the presence of the future. 

And we do. Function that is, for we have to. Although doing that, to some at least, seems like succumbing to nothing—to complete and utter forget. For it’s then possible to forget this or that was someone else’s function if it’s now habitually yours. No one will know a car is refurbished from looking.

I can see this perspective, this fear, I really can, but on the inside, where things matter, evolved parts won’t erase the old ones. To run the foundation of our lives has to act as a guide; for it is all we really have to guide us anyway. And what is more foundational than the people we have lost? Then the places and memories that raised us?

Perhaps that’s why, in the instability of loss, I can feel the faith that others around me so greatly carried. Maybe I don’t share it, but maybe, I can still feel it. That is what they left for me. A reminder of a foundational aspect of life that was trickling out of my car, being replaced by shine. 

My last two Omaha Nebraska trips were funerals and I fear it very well might be just that—dying out it seems. I don’t foresee myself returning to the place for pleasure, beyond the one set of grandparents that still live there. But perhaps, every now and then I can still draw back on it. The love I felt there. The love that grew there. The ready-made eggs, fireflies, and smell of almonds.  

I don’t want my memories to die out but I can’t relive or replenish them. That in itself is a scary thought that makes me feel older than I am. Maybe I’m due for a tune-up. One where I draw from memory; reliving not the memory itself but what it brought me. Maybe through that, I can find the same joy I always had in that overly white living room; not replacing it but renewing. Cause’ I have changed, and it wouldn’t be the same there now anyway. Too many things and people are missing.

It makes sense we want to relive joyous moments, but recreation is never as good as the original. I believe that is why death gives us a chance to renew instead. Renew the values, feeling, and love of the people and places that created us. To know they will always be there to fall back on, no matter how much memories can fade or how many new parts we aquire. We can’t run without our foundation, and we can’t lose what we run on.

Could that be faith in a way? Believing what I love will never truly be lost.

Maybe. Maybe not.

Either way, here’s to death, faith, and chocolate cake.