Yesterday, I was planning to go into Cahors on the bus to buy some special gifts to send back to my parents and a friend in New Orleans who helps me with my banking. Dali and I were walking earlier than usual. She wasn't "attached" when I noticed one of the women from the village driving by and opening up our church. I believe they have services there one Saturday a month. When we were returning home, I saw a glass covered wooden stand holding a black book with "Condoléances" etched in gold on the front. I didn't see a name anywhere, so I went on my way home and on to Cahors.
I returned around 2pm and had a couple purchases to take up the hill to Greg. When Dal and I passed the church, someone with a small sound system in his arms (who I later discovered was the Priest) was going into the church. The glass cover was up and I was able to see that one of the elders of our village-(I thought a farmer but who I later discovered was even more)-had passed. I didn't know Monsieur Lacam, but I know his brother and their family. I delivered my packages and had a conversation with Greg about whether we should attend. It wasn't until Dal and I were walking down the hill home and I saw everyone coming for the service, that I decided it was important to go. I still had my skirt and stockings on from my morning excursion, so I took off the denim garden shirt and threw on a nice gray and black checked number to return for the service. I was just in time and was able to sit in the back row with mes voisins Madame and Monsieur Pages. Although I'm not Catholic and I don't understand all of the French, it isn't difficult to put all the pieces together. If Father Henry were sitting with me yesterday, like he did at mass in St. Eustache in Paris-I would have understood every word. Not because he speaks French mind you, but because the words are etched always in his heart and soul.
When the service was ending, our Mayor got up and went to the back of the church. This time, I knew where she was going-she pulls the rope that sounds our bell. Bennie's bell of rest was ringing in our village for Monsieur Lacam. We exited the church and followed the hearse down and around and then up the cemetery road. At the back with friends and neighbors, we hooked arms and walked together up the hill and into the cemetery. From the end of the line, I was able to watch as each paid their respects and then many stopped on our second aisle on the other side to share a moment with their family and friends who had crossed over. I am always touched on these days, when I feel the blurring of the boundaries of the universe...and for me, the blurring of the boundaries that set me apart in my village. Bennie was with me on the way home. I thought about how the bells that ring in my village tend to be his bells of rest and that I hope these bells of rest aren't destined to ring on this sweet, close to the natural flow, uncomplicated life that is life in our place in the Lot.
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