Funeral
I stand inside the chapel courtyard as the aunties and uncles spill onto the street. The hearse waits patiently next to the man in coattails. Who decided that undertakers should wear such things, I muse, as loved ones say their final goodbyes.
Earlier, Sarah Doreen Ford, known fondly as Aunt Sarah, lay in her coffin and Sunday best to usher friends and family: Christian, Muslim and even Wimla in her Hindu sari, into her memorial service. Her cheeks had left with her spirit five days before. This early morning of mourning saw her skin tautly drawn over her skull as if to manifest her willingness to leave her physical form behind. But for the moment her body was still there, and Bernard rested his hand absentmindedly on the open casket.
After all the myrrh and blessed art thou’s there was nothing left to say to her, now thankfully closed coffin.
I stand inside the chapel courtyard with my squirming son planted on my hip as they carry her to the car and roll her into its hungry mouth, the one that will carry her to the fire of ‘ashes to ashes’. From the corner of my eye I notice the undertaker who dusts off his coattails. Only moments before the red and white procession left the church he had stomped out his own guilty cigarette and ticket to the afterlife.
He noiselessly claps his hands as if to celebrate a successful performance, closes the trunk and slimes his way into the driver’s seat. The engine starts up smoothly.
There is no coffin left for Bernard’s roaming hand to rest on. His outstretched arm finds the back windscreen, all tinted and dark. His wife hides behind the glass wall. His fingers inch forward with the car as it slowly makes its way through the people.
She is leaving.
Now.
She is gone.
I can hear 45 years of marriage rip itself from his spirit. His rummaging hand can find nothing but his own face, a sudden deluge flooding the street outside the Chapel of St Phillip. Through the clouds in his eyes as he watches the hearse drive off, I see the reflection of a distant memory in my own heart. I remember watching another car, another mother, my own, disappear down a street fifteen years ago. The winter lawn under my young feet then, had been yellow and dead and desperate.
The forced goodbyes of death tear cartilage and veins through the skin, leaving us desecrated. There are some spaces that we carry inside our chests that never fill up again, no matter how much time passes.
The memory flickers on and then off again as I join the procession to the hall down the road. We all try to skip over the dog shit on the pavement on the way there. Some are less successful than others as the steps outside the hall bear the testimony of those who failed to walk with light feet. Inside though, the tables are dripping with muffins and scones and other sugary delights to soothe the sadness of the day away in a frenzied bout of comfort eating.
Bernard moves with us, back in his role as organiser and generally hospitable and together man. His goodbye is safely hidden in the breast pocket of his grey suit. For extra measure he holds on to my boy, his safety blanket, to help him keep the grief at bay. My son promptly blesses him with milk vomit on his left shoulder as if to say that for some present, life was still a very fresh affair.
There is no ‘stop’ button, no pause. In breathing and living we are committed to the flow of time. The heartache cannot will time to stop, for Bernard or for me.
Today’s goodbye was crammed into one moment of fingers torn from a car window. The wheels roll on. Memories desperately try to keep up with us, but the big holes left by the ones we once loved, still love, remain no matter how fast or slow we travel.
© 2006 Lucille Greeff
I stand inside the chapel courtyard as the aunties and uncles spill onto the street. The hearse waits patiently next to the man in coattails. Who decided that undertakers should wear such things, I muse, as loved ones say their final goodbyes.
Earlier, Sarah Doreen Ford, known fondly as Aunt Sarah, lay in her coffin and Sunday best to usher friends and family: Christian, Muslim and even Wimla in her Hindu sari, into her memorial service. Her cheeks had left with her spirit five days before. This early morning of mourning saw her skin tautly drawn over her skull as if to manifest her willingness to leave her physical form behind. But for the moment her body was still there, and Bernard rested his hand absentmindedly on the open casket.
After all the myrrh and blessed art thou’s there was nothing left to say to her, now thankfully closed coffin.
I stand inside the chapel courtyard with my squirming son planted on my hip as they carry her to the car and roll her into its hungry mouth, the one that will carry her to the fire of ‘ashes to ashes’. From the corner of my eye I notice the undertaker who dusts off his coattails. Only moments before the red and white procession left the church he had stomped out his own guilty cigarette and ticket to the afterlife.
He noiselessly claps his hands as if to celebrate a successful performance, closes the trunk and slimes his way into the driver’s seat. The engine starts up smoothly.
There is no coffin left for Bernard’s roaming hand to rest on. His outstretched arm finds the back windscreen, all tinted and dark. His wife hides behind the glass wall. His fingers inch forward with the car as it slowly makes its way through the people.
She is leaving.
Now.
She is gone.
I can hear 45 years of marriage rip itself from his spirit. His rummaging hand can find nothing but his own face, a sudden deluge flooding the street outside the Chapel of St Phillip. Through the clouds in his eyes as he watches the hearse drive off, I see the reflection of a distant memory in my own heart. I remember watching another car, another mother, my own, disappear down a street fifteen years ago. The winter lawn under my young feet then, had been yellow and dead and desperate.
The forced goodbyes of death tear cartilage and veins through the skin, leaving us desecrated. There are some spaces that we carry inside our chests that never fill up again, no matter how much time passes.
The memory flickers on and then off again as I join the procession to the hall down the road. We all try to skip over the dog shit on the pavement on the way there. Some are less successful than others as the steps outside the hall bear the testimony of those who failed to walk with light feet. Inside though, the tables are dripping with muffins and scones and other sugary delights to soothe the sadness of the day away in a frenzied bout of comfort eating.
Bernard moves with us, back in his role as organiser and generally hospitable and together man. His goodbye is safely hidden in the breast pocket of his grey suit. For extra measure he holds on to my boy, his safety blanket, to help him keep the grief at bay. My son promptly blesses him with milk vomit on his left shoulder as if to say that for some present, life was still a very fresh affair.
There is no ‘stop’ button, no pause. In breathing and living we are committed to the flow of time. The heartache cannot will time to stop, for Bernard or for me.
Today’s goodbye was crammed into one moment of fingers torn from a car window. The wheels roll on. Memories desperately try to keep up with us, but the big holes left by the ones we once loved, still love, remain no matter how fast or slow we travel.
© 2006 Lucille Greeff
posted by lucy fern @ 12:34 PM
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