Fly Me to the Moon

The singer walks in – she is a presence – and I think OMG here is Ella Fitzgerald right in front of me but of course that’s not possible, Ella is in heaven. She must have a doppelgänger here on Earth, flowing clothing, huge sunglasses, a small smile as she silently nods a greeting to people. Her guitarist trails behind with their gear and they head to their places up near the front. I stare. Yes, I do.

We are in a mausoleum, gathered to inurn J’s dad in his tiny eternal cubicle. About a hundred people gather in what is actually the main hallway, all marble and echoes. It is a hot Chicago day and I’m glad that we’re inside this cool, calm space. Before the service, we were taken on a tour of the building, which is enormous, labyrinthine. The many hallways are lined with tiny doorways, behind which are ashes of one or two people, and in a few cases entire families. We find the one that will hold J’s father. Her nephew says, “Seeing my name up there freaks me out!” He is the “fourth,” named for his great-grandfather, grandfather, father. We solemnly wander back up to the marble room and the music starts, quiet jazz. “Ella” softly hums and sings a few standards.

There are remembrances, a eulogy. A poem. There’s always a poem. It’s more of a sendoff than a service. The talking stops, there’s a rustle from the musicians’ corner, and they launch into Fly Me to the Moon. They start softly, out of rhythm, and then take off. A little scat here and there. “Ella” has all of us mesmerized. J’s dad, a jazz pianist, would love it and I hope he’s here in the rafters, jamming with them. The sound bounces around the marble walls and stained glass windows and hits us all smack in the heart. I don’t want this music to stop. When it’s over, there’s a silence but it’s not still, it’s vibrant with the music still reverberating in our bodies.

I wander over to the musicians as they’re packing up. I know it’s just a gig to them and they’re probably about to dash off to another booking. Maybe a party, maybe a reception, a wedding. I thank them, and they’re so gracious. I tell them I’m a musician, too, and they immediately get my appreciation. I linger a little too long, I don’t know how to express how much they’ve moved me.

“You really sound like Ella,” I say, because I can’t help it. She stops stuffing things in her huge bag and smiles. “I bet you get that a lot.”

She nods, still smiling and thanking me. “I do not mind that at all,” she says. “Not at all.” And they walk out with that get-to-the-next-gig stride.