Best Place To Die

US Today often publishes 10 Best Places to Live, to Retire, to See etc… but I have yet seen its 10 Best Places to Die.

But I have seen with my own eyes, however, how my grandma got buried (in Vietnam) and how my Dad got buried (in Virginia).

From experience, I’d rather die in Vietnam, surrounded by friends and families, the band and the bystanders.

But first, let me recount the most impressive funeral procession I have ever attended. It was for my Uncle-in-Law, who owned a chain of cinemas in Saigon. In fact, his residence at the time was in the back of one of the cinemas, right across from my future High-School. Prime real-estate.

When he passed away, his funeral was so lavish that it etched in my mind as if it were yesterday: led by two sets of horses and carriages (black and white), the procession stretched for miles packed with attendees in tailored-white. Families occasionally fell down onto the pavement in grief and mourning. Although chaotic to be expected, the scene ironically seemed well-choreographed, with marching bands back-to-back in a flow of foot traffic. Of course the street was completely cordoned off, while strangers looked on, many with hats off and heads bowed. People were courteous and considerate when witnessing someone’s death ( in this case, leaving behind a considerable amount of wealth: a chain of cinema, one in each district and one in our nearest beach compared to our humbler paternal grandma’

Though not as lavish yet equally impressionable was when my grandma passed away. My cousin told me to run and get a half-liter of rice alcohol (I had a lot of practice buying for my grandma the same thing, at the same place and the same amount).

The alcohol was for rubbing her still-warm body. She wore socks that lasted until decades later when her body got exhumed for cremation and re-burial in the North. I had my moment of “the Remains of the Day” at her funeral: adopted aunt, biological aunts, uncles, nephews, nieces, my half-sister etc.. We laughed, we cried and we teared up recounting snippets of good times. Somehow our little abode could contain so many people and visitors who each brought a wreath and attached condolences. Everyone came with a good heart and shared humanity.

Then decades went by. It’s my Dad’s turn. He ended up being buried in Fairfax, Virginia on a cold morning with snow on the ground. Tarp and tent were set for us, a handful of mourners in black ( and six pairs of white gloves). The section was called “Serenity”. My oldest sister said “everything is now over” and she cried. As if all the years of heavy burden were finally laid to rest too: his years of struggling in the boot camp, in the Army fighting for just cause, fighting at work (he punched a guy who said something offensive to him and ended up losing his job), fighting to protect his refugee family ( read Early Memories), fighting against my bully, fighting with my mom for being rightfully jealous, and fighting to push my brother to become a pharmacist who would rather be a musician.

Where would I like to be buried? Of course, where there is music.

Where people pause and reflect on their own lives. At least, the occasion of my stop-breathing helps serve as a reminder for by-standers that every minute and moment is precious. And that somehow, magically, we are put here as stardusts to bear testimony to a life well-lived, good deeds done and relationships worth-getting involved in.

My grandma’s funeral was the best I have ever engaged in. She was my first roommate after all, a humble soul who taught me life and laughter. Someday I might as well toast a rice alcohol drink to her when I visit her re-located grave up North. She forever plays second-fiddle (re-buried to the left of my grandpa, whose first wife had been laid next to him at her rightful place on the right) yet second-to-none, since she forever occupies an important place in my throbbing heart.

I guess US Today wouldn’t venture to publish “Best Place to Die” since the subject doesn’t sell.