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Today was a funeral.
It was a gathering of family: some close, yet distant; some witnessed on rare occasion; and some not previously known. It was a clear day, bright, but cold; it felt right.
There were many flowers; much in the way she would have appreciated.
There was sadness and laughter, smiles and tears, memories shared and futures discussed.
There was a simple plan hammered out of difficulty, shared frustration born from it and the victory of sense with some assistance at the end.
There was a jacket of memory, still not grown into.
There was London and traffic and more traffic, phone calls and charges, leading and rallying to keep up.
There was a service, a last wish fulfilled, a priest of some quality, songs sung with the quiet yet meaning of mutual embarrassment, and a speech full of the purest of truth with the satisfaction of an old regret fulfilled.
There was food, wine and tea; tomatoes that exploded and wine spilt in brief panic.
There was a gathering and a sharing, one worthy of her.
I know about her more now, there was a life of suffering and family, a family that in sight is a true measure of the greatness of her achievements. I shall remember her not for her way with potatoes, for that I didn't appreciate, but for all that was sewn and knitted, even though much is forever lost. She was Nan, and that is how I think she would have wished to be remembered at least by me.
If I think back to the other funerals I remember little of my Granddads though the same church brought back memories. I was 12, I do not recall the weather just the first true sadness of grief and loss, and the uncertainty of my younger brother. I remember him for the dances on his slippers, and for breakfast. It is the little things, for I can only regret I did not get an opportunity to make bigger memories.
With my Gran the funeral was a grim day. The weather was grey, the wind howled, the rain thundered in an endless drudging cadence. It felt like the whole world mourned, as if the heavens had opened up in there own grief, in unison with ours. As right as bright and clear was for Nan, for Gran no weather could have suited better. In her case we lost her twice, almost in halves and in hindsight that funeral was as much for the person lost after the first stroke, as the person lost in death. For me it was the first loss, not the second that hit hardest and so there were less tears, more joy at the freedom from which she had been trapped for so many years. With Gran the memories are clearer, she was closer. The strongest memories are of food; certain things that she would make, that my uncles, cousin and father have done their best to replicate, and for that I don't think I have enough thanks.
Today with Nan there weren't really tears, they're haven't really been many at all. She had deteriorated and died without suffering, in peace and with family. I can mourn her passing, but knowing what little life had left for her it seems almost selfish to be sad that she is gone, because of the implied wish she had stayed longer.
The more of the family I see the more I see where so much strength has flowed from. I am blessed by it really, and I shall continue to use that strength to help those who need it.
Yet with all that strength, I'm not sure I can deal with trying to assist my brother in a matter of learning any more. So much stress, so much pointless talking at cross purposes and failed comprehension on both sides. It just seems a fruitless waste of effort, and one that could be so much easier. Perhaps if I could be clearer, or he could just listen, but gah. Not the way to end the day, but perhaps something poignant can be found. For all that things come to an end, some things shall never change and life must carry on regardless of both.
It was a gathering of family: some close, yet distant; some witnessed on rare occasion; and some not previously known. It was a clear day, bright, but cold; it felt right.
There were many flowers; much in the way she would have appreciated.
There was sadness and laughter, smiles and tears, memories shared and futures discussed.
There was a simple plan hammered out of difficulty, shared frustration born from it and the victory of sense with some assistance at the end.
There was a jacket of memory, still not grown into.
There was London and traffic and more traffic, phone calls and charges, leading and rallying to keep up.
There was a service, a last wish fulfilled, a priest of some quality, songs sung with the quiet yet meaning of mutual embarrassment, and a speech full of the purest of truth with the satisfaction of an old regret fulfilled.
There was food, wine and tea; tomatoes that exploded and wine spilt in brief panic.
There was a gathering and a sharing, one worthy of her.
I know about her more now, there was a life of suffering and family, a family that in sight is a true measure of the greatness of her achievements. I shall remember her not for her way with potatoes, for that I didn't appreciate, but for all that was sewn and knitted, even though much is forever lost. She was Nan, and that is how I think she would have wished to be remembered at least by me.
If I think back to the other funerals I remember little of my Granddads though the same church brought back memories. I was 12, I do not recall the weather just the first true sadness of grief and loss, and the uncertainty of my younger brother. I remember him for the dances on his slippers, and for breakfast. It is the little things, for I can only regret I did not get an opportunity to make bigger memories.
With my Gran the funeral was a grim day. The weather was grey, the wind howled, the rain thundered in an endless drudging cadence. It felt like the whole world mourned, as if the heavens had opened up in there own grief, in unison with ours. As right as bright and clear was for Nan, for Gran no weather could have suited better. In her case we lost her twice, almost in halves and in hindsight that funeral was as much for the person lost after the first stroke, as the person lost in death. For me it was the first loss, not the second that hit hardest and so there were less tears, more joy at the freedom from which she had been trapped for so many years. With Gran the memories are clearer, she was closer. The strongest memories are of food; certain things that she would make, that my uncles, cousin and father have done their best to replicate, and for that I don't think I have enough thanks.
Today with Nan there weren't really tears, they're haven't really been many at all. She had deteriorated and died without suffering, in peace and with family. I can mourn her passing, but knowing what little life had left for her it seems almost selfish to be sad that she is gone, because of the implied wish she had stayed longer.
The more of the family I see the more I see where so much strength has flowed from. I am blessed by it really, and I shall continue to use that strength to help those who need it.
Yet with all that strength, I'm not sure I can deal with trying to assist my brother in a matter of learning any more. So much stress, so much pointless talking at cross purposes and failed comprehension on both sides. It just seems a fruitless waste of effort, and one that could be so much easier. Perhaps if I could be clearer, or he could just listen, but gah. Not the way to end the day, but perhaps something poignant can be found. For all that things come to an end, some things shall never change and life must carry on regardless of both.
