There’s dying alone, then there’s dying alone.
Some people’s bodies are never identified or claimed. The people whose jobs are to track down the bodies’ families sometimes can’t. (Or sometimes the family can’t afford a funeral, which is another issue.) I’m not sure what happens elsewhere, but Los Angeles County cremates these bodies, stores the ashes in plastic bags for four years, then buries the remains in one mass ceremony.
I’m curious to attend one of these burials. People have so many various beliefs about death and the body, even within the same religion — how do you reconcile these into one? — one right thing to say over the remains of all of these people whose religious and spiritual preferences are unknown. And how do you say the right thing when no one’s there to listen? Who are you comforting? Someone four years gone? Someone living who believes this compensates for something? What do you say over the remains of hundreds/thousands of people you don’t know, many of whom nobody seems to know or nobody knows well enough to care? Some of whom probably chose this course — life and death alone. I’m fascinated that it’s still important to say something because it really might be.
Relatedly: unclaimed ashes at funeral homes
[p.s., 9/4/08: Today (in a tidy package connecting my current job to my last job, to one of my favorite books, to this post from yesterday) I found this article about David Maisel’s new photography book Library of Dust. His photos are of metal canisters containing unclaimed cremains from an Oregon psychiatric hospital from the 20th century.]