This Is a Family Reunion. There Just Happens to Be a Casket.

We Only See Each Other When Somebody Dies—and Honestly, That Might Be Okay?

We’ve all been there. Hard pews then the folding chairs and cheap fans with Martin Luther King Jr. on the front and a photo of the church when it was built on the back. Cheap tissues that fall apart at the first sign of snot. The smell of funeral perfume punching you in the nose like grief in full bloom. Someone’s auntie in a bedazzled black suit starts passing out chewing gum and asking if anyone wants a sip of the water that got hot in her purse, and you realize—yet again—this is the family reunion. Because we only gather when somebody dies.

And every time, at some point without fail, someone stands up with a plate of repast fried chicken breasts and says it, like they’re the first one who ever thought to put these words in this exact order:

“We gotta stop only getting together at funerals.”

They say it the same way someone has to say “What if all this money was real?” when playing Monopoly. It’s just part of the ritual now. Right there next to the cousin who swears they’re going to plan something next year and the one who takes home extra potato salad even though they ain’t bring a thing but drama.

Listen, I get it. Life is busy. Families are complicated. And planning an actual reunion requires coordination, patience, and at least one auntie willing to threaten folks into RSVPing. So instead, we just wait until a funeral rolls around and let the funeral home handle the catering, the folding chairs, and the invitations (which are really just word-of-mouth and Facebook statuses with a broken heart and the praying hands emojis).

But here's the wild part: I was talking to Tara the other day—processing all this—and I had to admit something I wasn’t even fully ready to say out loud. Depending on which side of the family is dying...

I actually prefer funerals to family reunions.

I know how that sounds. But hear me out.

My mom’s dad’s side of the family? Reunions with them? Always a good time. They bring joy with them. Cards, music, crab legs sometimes, laughter always that starts in the belly and ends in the eyes. The kind of family where the arguments are playful, the food is seasoned, and you leave full.

But my dad’s mom’s side? Whew. That’s the reunion that’ll have you texting your friends and hookups across town for a possible escape plan before the first hot dog hits the grill. There’s always one or four folks beefing—deep, long-standing beef, like, generational-smoked brisket type beef. The turnout is low because someone’s not coming if so-and-so is gonna be there. And even if folks do show up, they’re tense. Everybody's side-eyeing each other, and once the liquor starts flowing (and there's always liquor), it's a gamble. Adding liquor, especially brown liquor, to an already-fragile reunion is like throwing a sparkler into a pile of dry leaves. Somebody’s gonna say something slick. Someone else will pretend they didn't hear it. Another person absolutely did hear it and has time today. And before you know it, kids are lifted by the arms and the tail lights are the only goodbyes we’ll get.

But a funeral?

People show up.

Even the ones who swore they were done with this side of the family. Even the ones who said “if I see her again, it’s on sight.” Somehow, death makes people reconsider the sight part. They hug. They cry. They tell jokes at the repast while wiping their faces with napkins from the church basement. And the liquor still comes—but now it softens instead of sparks. Sad people drinking aren’t trying to fight. They’re trying to remember. They’re trying to forgive. They skip the chit chat and go right to the necessary. They tell stories they haven’t told in years. They hold hands. They apologize with full chests. There’s something about grief that makes people tender.

Alcohol and grief gets you the most honest conversations you’ll ever have in a parking lot.

So yeah, if I had to choose?
Give me the funeral.
Give me the sad drunks who know how important it is to connect, even if it only lasts as long as the time on the rented banquet hall or church center.

Because maybe, for just a moment, between the tears and the Tito’s, we remember what we forget in life—that we belong to each other. That time runs out. That love is bigger than a grudge. And that the family reunion should never be left in the hands of a casket.

But if it is? At least let the repast chicken be hot.