Notes from the Swiss Alps: No. 7 – What Do You Wear to a Funeral?

The church bells clamored throughout the village like a volcano about to erupt.
The sound felt like a pinball ricocheting through my body, bouncing off every organ and tendon.

How many times the bells rang out, I do not recall — but I assumed there must be a decided number, perhaps even a specific tone or rhythm, that tells the village what is taking place. I wondered how far the sound could be heard. How it might echo off the jagged, snow-capped mountains, shifting ice and snow in its wake.

The funeral procession I stood in was only fifty yards down the cobblestone street from the church. There we waited — for the ceremony to begin, for others to arrive, and for all of us to walk the short distance together in a line of solemn black.

I wasn’t sure what was more potent: the silence that followed the bells, or the deafening clamor announcing that one of the roughly one thousand residents of this Northern Italian alpine village had passed away.

My husband’s grandmother, Ida.
I never had the chance to meet her.

The thought landed heavily: this woman would have been the great-grandmother of my husband’s and my future children. Who was she? It saddens me that I never had the chance to begin to know.

I stood there waiting, unsure what to do with my face, trying to conceal my red purse between my torso and upper arm — worried it was somehow the color of the devil. Shit. I knew I should have brought the violet one.

Earlier that day, I asked my husband what I should wear. He was almost as unsure as I was, but one thing felt certain: black. Definitely black.

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The two funerals I had attended before were in California.

The first was less a funeral and more a celebration of life. It took place on a green, grassy lawn beside the Russian River, where my ex-partner spent endless hours fly-fishing. We celebrated his far-too-short life with stories of his love for surfing, the ocean, rivers, and steelhead. Tears flowed. A fire was lit. Hawaiian poke was served. And the red-rimmed eyes of his parents will forever be etched in my memory.

That day, I wore Gabe’s favorite color — green — and a Hawaiian trucker hat with Aloha written across the front.
It was November 13th, 2021.

The other funeral I had attended was for someone I had known quietly my whole life. It wasn’t held in a church, and it wasn’t somber in the way this day in the village was. It too was called a celebration of life. I remember arriving unsure of the unspoken rules — unsure whether black was expected or somehow inappropriate. I wore it anyway, because it felt like what you do when someone dies. Later, someone gently told me it wasn’t necessary.

That day was filled with stories and tear-choked laughter, with an insistence on color and memory rather than mourning.

I realized — a little too late — that grief doesn’t actually care what you’re wearing. And that ceremonies, no matter how lovingly planned, sometimes leave those of us on the outside wondering if we’ve gotten it wrong.

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Ida’s casket was adorned with roses — deep reds and burnt oranges — like the last sunset she might have seen over the mountains. People arrived in small groups, offering condolences to the family. Ida is survived by her three sons, one of whom is my father-in-law.

Among those who came to honor her life was an elderly woman, so small and frail it seemed as though she had lived her life without carrying unnecessary baggage. Was she a friend, or something closer? In a village like this, everyone knows everyone. I don’t think there are merely acquaintances.

I wondered what was going through her mind.
Had she lost yet another friend?
Was she contemplating life and death — wondering why she was still here?
Had death become a familiar companion, visiting her thoughts and the people she loves more frequently now?

The priest and an altar boy emerged from the church, leaving plumes of white smoke in their wake as they moved down the narrow street toward the waiting procession. The thurible swung from the young boy’s hands, burning with frankincense and myrrh — I only knew that because I could smell it.

I’m not Catholic, nor do I identify with any religious denomination. How I know it’s called a thurible is thanks to Google. What it means — or why it’s used — required another search. I’ll save you the trouble:

The priest or deacon swings it to create a thick, sweet-smelling smoke that symbolizes prayers rising to heaven and serves as a sign of purification and reverence.

I scanned the crowd, wondering if I was the only one who didn’t know the customs or traditions. After speaking with a close friend later, it turns out most people from here aren’t sure either.

Catholicism isn’t especially central to everyday life in California — particularly when you’re raised by parents who met in a religious cult and later developed their own grievances about organized religion, which they passed along. I’ll save that story for another time.

In Italy, Catholicism is woven into daily life — funerals, holidays, village rhythms, bells, rituals, processions. Not everyone is devout — many are not — but almost everyone grew up with it as part of their world, knowing the call-and-response prayers without ever realizing they had learned them.

There are times I feel so much like an outsider that no bridge exists between the world I came from and the one I now inhabit. There seem to be specific ways to do almost everything here — in and out of the Church. I get a lot “wrong” most days, and I’ve almost learned to find humor in it instead of wet eyes.

And then, suddenly, someone offers a smile or mirrors my thoughts — and the sense of belonging returns. Those moments save me from going completely crazy… or from running far, far away, back to California, where everything feels familiar and known.

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This funeral — the lunch that followed, the car ride home with my husband and his brother — are moments where I am still learning.

What are the customs?
Should I flick water on the picture of the deceased as well?
Is it okay to eat now, or do I wait until everyone is seated, plates full from the buffet?

And beneath it all, the quiet question persists:
How do I build meaningful connections in a place where we don’t share the same language?

The truth I’m discovering is that most people — even those born and raised in a culture — also question themselves about proper etiquette, dress, and behavior.

It seems we’re all just trying to figure it out.

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Everyone seems to have an opinion about what is right and what is wrong.

Each time I questioned myself — What do I wear? — I felt the absurdity of it. Worrying about clothing feels superficial, so far removed from what a ceremony marking someone’s passing should be about. And yet, there I was — worried. Because when you don’t know the customs, you try to show respect through the only language you think you understand.

For me, it’s about life — their lived life.
Not clothing.
Not customs.
Not rules.

I want to hear stories and share my own. I want to cry and laugh and hug those who are still here to do those things with. I want to honor the life that has passed by being fully aware that we are still here — still capable of making a difference in the lives of others, and maybe even in this world at large.

And maybe, beneath all the differences — language, ritual, religion, place — we are all wanting the same things after all.
To be seen.
To belong.
To be loved.
To be remembered.

To know that when the bells ring for us one day, we mattered.

And maybe that’s just my opinion.

Love you,

Bridgette Joy