A Childhood Lived Between Worlds

It's funny, when people ask about my childhood, I often see their eyes widen a bit, maybe even a hint of unease. You see, from the tender age of five, right up until I left for college at eighteen, my home wasn't just a house. It was, quite literally, an apartment situated directly above a working funeral home. Imagine the sounds: not just the usual hum of family life upstairs, but the muted sobs drifting up from below, the gentle creak of gurneys, and, yes, that distinct, almost sweet, chemical scent of embalming fluid that became as familiar as my mother's cooking.

For me, the funeral home wasn't some spooky, forbidden place. It was our backyard, our playground, an extension of our everyday existence. My siblings and I would play hide-and-seek among the stacks of empty caskets in the showroom, their polished surfaces reflecting our youthful grins. The preparation room, often called the 'prep room' in hushed tones, wasn't just where bodies were prepared; it was sometimes a convenient shortcut to another part of the building. We'd peek in, our childish curiosity overriding any inherent fear, observing the quiet, methodical work of my father and his colleagues. It wasn't macabre to us; it was simply what they did.

Of course, there were the less mundane tasks too. Answering the phone, dusting the chapel, setting out flower arrangements – these were chores, yes, but they were also a window into a world most children never see. I watched my father, calm and dignified, guide grieving families through their darkest hours. I saw raw pain, unvarnished sorrow, and yet, also profound love and resilience. It wasn't just about death; it was about the vibrant, messy, beautiful lives that had been lived, and the aching void left behind.

Living amidst constant reminders of mortality did something rather profound to my perspective. It stripped away much of the fear surrounding death, replacing it with a quiet understanding, an acceptance. It wasn't a monster hiding under the bed; it was a natural, inevitable part of the cycle. This unique upbringing taught me an unparalleled empathy, a sensitivity to the nuanced layers of grief, and the importance of truly being present for people when they hurt. It was a masterclass in the human condition, played out daily right beneath our feet.

Explaining this unique living situation to new friends was always an interesting exercise, to say the least. Some were fascinated, others, understandably, a little unnerved. But for me, it was just home. It was where I learned to ride my bike, did my homework, and dreamt my childhood dreams, all while the quiet, solemn rhythm of life's final chapter unfolded downstairs. That constant proximity to both life and death, the mundane and the profound, gave me a grounded, perhaps even philosophical, outlook that few my age possessed.

Looking back now, it's clear that growing up in that funeral home wasn't just a quirky detail of my past; it was a fundamental part of who I am. It instilled in me a deep appreciation for the preciousness of every moment, the importance of connection, and the gentle understanding that even in loss, there is always, always a story to be honored. It was an experience I truly will never forget, a quiet education in humanity that continues to shape my world every single day.