A family funeral makes me drift.
I look at the flowers and listen to the ministers and music, but my mind wanders. I avoid looking at the casket, choosing to summon up memorable moments, like scenes in an old cinema.
I remember the person in full bloom.
When things really hit me is after the funeral. I put away my suit, and recall kicks into high gear. 
So it was that I began to call up memories of Aunt Sister, she of 2 familial names, whom we buried March 19.
She arrived August 11, 1923, as Sarah Evelyn Walker. I knew her as Aunt Sister, a lady who loved to make people laugh. 
She passed through times that many of us will never see the likes of. She was 6 when the Great Depression arrived; 16 when World War II erupted, 40 when JFK died; 46 when Neil Armstrong walked on the moon. 
And there was “life.” Births. Deaths. Vacations. Meals. Heartbreak. Elation. Disappointment. Careers. Family. Beloved pets. The things she learned. 
Losing a loved one is like having a great library burn to the ground. 
She would have been 96 August 11. When you live that long, you acquire a treasure chest of life experiences. 
10 years ago Aunt sister told me about her youth and the Great Depression. “Sundays mama would fix something special. We’d go to church and in the evening we’d go for a stroll. Wild grapes grew at an old home place. We’d find muscadines. We’d set out hooks for fish on Saturday nights. Everybody had dresses made from bolts of cloth provided by the WPA so everybody looked alike.
“We made homemade syrup ... we ate organic and didn’t know it ... soles of shoes would flap, and daddy would wire them together. Dresses made from flour sacks had to be washed a lot to get the numbers and printing out.” 
She remembers her daddy making persimmon beer. “It had baked sweet potatoes in it and clean broomstraw went in the bottom to strain it. We all got one glass; it was sharp and tickled your tongue. That night a mule pulled the stopper out and that was the end of the persimmon beer.”
She recalled summer nights when “it was so hot we’d sleep on pallets on the grass beneath the stars. Daddy would kill a beef every year. He’d put it in a wagon and take it to the neighbors and share part of it. Neighbors did the same thing. So everyone had some beef that way.”
It’s said those who lived through the Great Depression never were the same again. Aunt Sister recalled those hard days, but beneath it all you detected hope and compassion. Sleeping on grass beneath the stars? What a beautiful way to deal with adversity.
Well, the years go by. My family tree grows green supple limbs as brown, brittle limbs break away. One day I added up all the elders I knew “growing up.” Out of 18 names, only 2 remain. 
I like to think the others are busy catching up with Aunt Sister now, and I’ll tell you something you can take to the bank. She will have a lot to tell them. And you can bet there’ll be plenty of laughter.