The balloon and the walnut

Funerals are supposed to follow a certain rhythm. Quiet music. Whispered condolences. Maybe a bad cup of coffee afterward while everyone stares at the Jell-O salad someone brought “just in case.”

But my friend Chris has never done much by the book.

When we walked into his dad’s service, the ushers handed each of us a balloon and a walnut. No explanation. No program. Just… a balloon. And a walnut. Like we’d accidentally wandered into a children’s birthday party hosted by a squirrel.

People looked around, confused but polite—because that’s what you do at funerals. You pretend the weird thing is normal until someone with a microphone tells you otherwise.

Eventually, that someone was Chris.
He stood up front, small beads of sweat gathering at his forehead, and started talking about his dad—the kind of man who built things with his hands and humor, equal parts precision and mischief. You could see him in Chris’s face, in his timing, in the way he tried to keep it together and almost did.

As he neared the end, he gestured toward the balloon. I don’t remember exactly what he said—something simple and true enough to make the room go still. You could feel the ache in it.

Then he looked down at the walnut in his hand.
He smiled, just barely, and said, “Oh, the walnut?”
Paused.
Waited.

You could feel the room tilt—people holding their breath, unsure if this was still the serious part or if we were about to be let off the hook.

“Well,” he said, “that’s because my dad was also a little bit nuts.”

The laugh didn’t burst all at once, it spread. First a chuckle, then a ripple, and suddenly the room was alive again—laughter through tears, shoulders shaking, tissues giving up the fight. Relief filled the space like light breaking through stained glass.

That was years ago, but I’ve never forgotten it.
Because when grief shows up, it usually brings silence.
And somehow, Chris’s dad left us with a punchline.

And I think that’s the kind of legacy most of us would be lucky to leave behind.