The first time I heard it, the murmur of muted cellos was sweet, haunting, the A minor chord augmented gradually by other strings, the chanting chorus. When the music shifted to A major, my eyes brimmed with the lyrical expansion of violins and voices. I was another instrument being mysteriously collected, gently hammered, my body resonating.
Verdi's Requiem.
I begged my friend Donna that night, "Please, if you survive me, play this at my funeral."
Kyrie eleison.
Then my son called, his voice choked, to tell me his dad — my ex-husband Dave — had died suddenly at age fifty of an apparent heart attack. I called in my Frequent Flyer miles to jet to Clearwater, Florida, and packed a cassette recording of the Requiem.
Lord have mercy on us.
The plane was late and I arrived only minutes before the service was to start. My son and daughter had left the music up to the funeral director, who was not pleased with my insistence on Verdi.
Lacrymosa dies illa.
The scene: an unctuous mortician who speaks too softly and keeps his hands folded in front at all times, a funeral parlor filled with the sickening, overpowering scent of flowers, the deceased in the open casket resembling someone we used to know but waxy and strangely colored. Dear God, they've gotten his nose wrong. It's much bigger than I remember.
Ah, that day of tears and mourning.
I learned that funeral music is meant to be white noise, to keep people hushed, emotions tethered, everyone miming the embalmer, eyes down, looking properly respectful. The Verdi was a mistake, an intrusion, far too beautiful, drawing our attention away from memories of a life. But it was too late, the service had started. The Requiem's urgent soprano and eerie choral murmurs seemed to admonish me for this choice, for all my choices.
Libera me, Domine.
Relentlessly the music soared, competing with the low murmurs, barely perceptible, discordant notes: "Was it really his heart?" "Why no autopsy?" "They say it might have been suicide."
Deliver me, O Lord.
Verdi's Requiem.
Kyrie eleison.
Then my son called, his voice choked, to tell me his dad — my ex-husband Dave — had died suddenly at age fifty of an apparent heart attack. I called in my Frequent Flyer miles to jet to Clearwater, Florida, and packed a cassette recording of the Requiem.
Lord have mercy on us.
The plane was late and I arrived only minutes before the service was to start. My son and daughter had left the music up to the funeral director, who was not pleased with my insistence on Verdi.
Lacrymosa dies illa.
The scene: an unctuous mortician who speaks too softly and keeps his hands folded in front at all times, a funeral parlor filled with the sickening, overpowering scent of flowers, the deceased in the open casket resembling someone we used to know but waxy and strangely colored. Dear God, they've gotten his nose wrong. It's much bigger than I remember.
Ah, that day of tears and mourning.
I learned that funeral music is meant to be white noise, to keep people hushed, emotions tethered, everyone miming the embalmer, eyes down, looking properly respectful. The Verdi was a mistake, an intrusion, far too beautiful, drawing our attention away from memories of a life. But it was too late, the service had started. The Requiem's urgent soprano and eerie choral murmurs seemed to admonish me for this choice, for all my choices.
Libera me, Domine.
Relentlessly the music soared, competing with the low murmurs, barely perceptible, discordant notes: "Was it really his heart?" "Why no autopsy?" "They say it might have been suicide."
Deliver me, O Lord.
2 comments:
What a beautiful piece. I've picked out the music for my funeral and I want it speak to the hearts of any who care enough about my or my loved ones to attend. I say - good for you!
Very moving piece. You've got me thinking about my music now.
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