I saw my deceased uncle at his funeral
In 1970, I was thirteen years old. It was then, in a cemetery, that I saw something no child should ever see. When I told my grandmother about it, her response stayed with me forever. From that day on, what I saw and felt stayed with me forever. Twice more in my life, I was absolutely certain that there was something beyond what we could see with our eyes.
My name is Ivónia Aparecida, I am sixty-nine years old and this is my story.
I was born and raised in the eastern part of São Paulo, in the Itaquera neighborhood. My father came from Minas Gerais as a young man, looking for work and a better life. My mother followed him, with little in her suitcase but a lot of faith in her heart. Thus, our family took root in a modest neighborhood, on a street of small houses where children played on the sidewalk until dinnertime.
My uncle Geraldo was my father’s brother. He came from Minas Gerais with him, lived a few blocks from us, and was a regular at Sunday dinners. He was a simple man, rather quiet. He liked to sit at the head of the table and listen. Every now and then, he’d utter a short sentence that would stick in my mind for days.
I liked my uncle. He wasn’t an effusive man, he didn’t give hugs or engage in long conversations. But whenever he saw me, he’d always come over, put his hand on my head, and ask how I was doing in school. For a child, such a simple comment can be more important than grand gestures.
News of his death arrived this morning. His wife knocked on our door. My uncle had tried to resist the attack and was killed on his way to work. My father froze in the middle of the room, unable to say a word. My mother covered her mouth with her hand and stood motionless in the doorway. I sat and watched them, not yet fully understanding what had happened.
The funeral took place at the Saudade Cemetery. I had never been to a cemetery before. When I entered for the first time, holding my grandmother’s hand, I felt a different silence than anywhere else. Rows of graves stretched in all directions, and my grandmother gripped my hand tightly and silently.
We reached the place where Uncle Gerald’s coffin was to be buried. Family and neighbors gathered around, and the priest began to pray. Everyone bowed their heads and closed their eyes.
I didn’t close my eyes.
I looked straight ahead. And that’s when I saw him.
On the other side of the group, a few feet from the coffin, stood my Uncle Geraldo. He stood motionless, his arms at his sides, gazing at the coffin with a concentration I can’t describe. I glanced down, then up again, certain he wouldn’t be there anymore. But he was still standing there, in the same position, staring at the coffin that held his body.
I tugged on my mother’s sleeve, trying to get her attention. She didn’t open her eyes. She only whispered to me to be quiet and to honor the prayer. When I looked back at where my uncle had been, he was gone.
The funeral was over. When people began to leave, leaving only my grandmother and I at the graveside, I couldn’t bear it any longer. I whispered to her that I’d seen Uncle Gerald praying. He was standing nearby, looking at his own coffin.
Grandma wasn’t frightened. She fell silent, turned her face toward the spot I’d indicated, and stared intently at it for a few seconds. When she looked at me, I saw neither doubt nor anxiety in her eyes. I saw recognition.
She took my hands, pulled me closer, and said very quietly that some people are born with the ability to see what others cannot. She said I shouldn’t be afraid, because it’s not a bad thing. It’s a gift from God that must be worn with respect, quietly, because not everyone is ready to understand it.
I didn’t yet know what to make of these words. But Grandma wasn’t afraid of what I saw. And that was what calmed me. We left the cemetery together, carrying the burden of my vision and her words, which would help me through the years to come.
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