There are rituals to funerals.
Of course, I dressed carefully, applied minimal make up, did my hair, daubed on some Chanel No 5, which I save for special occasions, and left with time to spare so I didn't arrive late. It was going to be a 100 km round trip. At least peak hour was over.
For some context, this was a funeral of one of my masonic friends. She was one of my most favourite people. We were in lodge together only a fortnight ago. She was 91. A sprightly, engaged, fun, interesting woman, who was becoming increasingly frail, but was still walking unaided, and though a bit deaf, loved a good conversation, no matter when or wear. She made the most awesome asparagus rolls and other CWA standards. She was a life-long learner. Curious, yet without judgement. Her family were everything to her. She was everything to her family. A mother to four sons, we were reminded that she was once a mother of four under six. She had the patience of Job.
That she died at 91 is not unexpected. That she was taken quickly in a horrific car accident is the tragedy. Thankfully, she did not suffer. As awful the circumstances, most are taking some solace in this fact.
In conversation the day before with the deceased's sister, I was instructed to wear colour, not black. Her sister would have liked it if we wore colour. As much as this was a sad and tragic occasion, this was a celebration. There was a lot to celebrate.
On arriving at the memorial gardens, I'd arrived with a few minutes to spare and a full house. Her family were holding themselves together. I found one so, a man in his mid-sixties on the way in - her son who I'd sat on many a committee with. We hugged. No words. Just a "Yeah..." at the end of it. I found her sister in the front row. At 89, she too is a nimble old chook. She seemed happy to see me there.
"I'm not crying," she said.
"You don't have to," was my reply. "I'm not crying - but I do the work on the inside."
"I'm not crying because I know she's happy."
"That is a marvelous way to look at all this."
The ceremony commenced. The celebrant was engaging, not that she's met my friend, but she did spend time with the family and got the stories and go a sense of this wonderful woman. Her sons spoke. Some of her grandchildren spoke. The photo gallery showed a woman who was happy and who was loved.
What more could you ask for?
For me, I cannot remember ever being in a room that was filled with more love and grace.
As much as I will miss my friend, I can only celebrate her. My life is so much the richer for knowing her.
You can't say that about everybody.
(As a post-script, I quickly worked out that the man I'd given a big hug to on the way in was not the brother I thought it was. I know the third brother. This was the second brother - a slightly taller, slimmer, mirror image version of the brother I know well. And here I was thinking the man I knew had hit the Ozempic. At the wake, I found him to apologise. I'm not one for hugging strange men normally. He said not to worry - it was a great hug. I still feel like a dickhead.)
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