On the day of the funeral, snow was falling thickly, blanketing the graves and headstones in a soft white down as if it could disguise their very nature.
We gathered at the porch of the chapel in our bewildered, unsettled groups, shuffling our feet against the biting cold and wondering when someone would tell us what to do, where to go. We were like unsupervised children, incapable of making our own decisions.
Every few moments, someone came up to me and looked me in the eyes, waiting for recognition to blossom there. Sometimes it did and I hugged people who used to be a big part of my life but now, would not have known had I sat next to them on the bus. Sometimes, they had to prompt me with a name. Or my brother, Ged, would tell me who they were, and I would gasp in disbelief and cling onto them as if I could rekindle my hedonistic youth.
Death is such a conflicted adversary, effortlessly ripping your world apart with one hand while applying healing balm with the other. Family, old friends, current friends, rediscovered friends, I moved amongst them like a ghost, there but not really there, until the coffin arrived, and then I fell apart.
The Service
In 1998, at the funeral for Mum, when the priest spoke about her, I did not recognise who that person was. He didn’t know her and despite our briefing to him, he spoke about her as if he was reading a brochure. Only my brother Ged’s spoken poem touched our hearts and brought Mum momentarily back to us.
At the funeral for my youngest brother, Mark, in 2017, the celebrant read out notes that sounded like the answer to a history exam question: Recount the timeline of Mark’s life. Despite people providing their memories of Mark, they were read aloud like a notice, with little intonation and even less emotion. There was no proper context, no grasp of who Mark was or what mattered to him. I left feeling that I didn’t know whoever it was we had just said goodbye to and bitterly regretting that I hadn’t spoken my own words.
The funeral for John could not have been further from both of those experiences.
Thanks to a thorough briefing from his three children, a selection of images that beautifully captured moments in his life, and an emotional selection of John’s favourite music, it was a service that perfectly encapsulated him. Both Ged and I gave eulogies, and the female celebrant spoke about him as if she really had known him.
We had done him proud; he would have loved it.
For the rest of the day, we moved from venue to venue, catching up with so many old friends, recounting stories of John, and listening to the playlist his children had compiled. By the time I fell into bed, exhausted, I knew I had said the best goodbye I could.
We began as a family of seven. Now we are three. Rest in peace my brother.
