Too late

 

We are rehearsing for the memorial service, a tribute to all the people who have been in the care of this incredible funeral home over the last year. I am confidently reading the names, most easy to pronounce, a few tricky when the origins are unknown – is it Hine (like pine?) or Hi-ne? It’s why we rehearse. That, and to test our speed. There are names on the list I know well, people whose families I have comforted, whose final ceremonies I’ve created, who I have only met after they have passed. It sounds trite, but it is a privilege, this mahi.

And then I read the name. It is his, my friend, the one I have been meaning to visit, ever since I arrived here in winter of 2021, the winter of discontent; the winter I carved out a new life for myself.

Later I ask the team: when did he die, and the answer is July, just four short months ago. But it is too late. I am too late. Too late to say I’m sorry you’re sick; too late to say I like your art; too late to say goodbye.

Two days later, the rehearsal morphs into the main event, with friends and strangers together in the peaceful space, as the candles glow and the flowers fill the air with scent and colour. It is beautiful, it is raw, it is precious. And there is only one thing I can do now for Andy, my friend: I will read his name with pride, with love.

For that, it is not too late.




Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

The meta-narrative

Image
I wake early, the waves crashing outside my window. It is early morning, and the salt-sprayed double-glazing struggles to keep the sound out. It is overwhelming, thunderous yet rhythmic, like the train that no longer runs on the track, its bridge destroyed by the cyclone. I open the doors and look into the sky, littered with stars, a lone truck or seabird punctuating the inhalations of the sea. This blog is “Tiny Stories” but there has been no room to write, no incentive. All the stories have been big: Gabrielle, bringing destruction and heart-break; weddings and funerals, laced with sorrow and joy; rising prices and frugal habits. The safety net is torn, and people are retracting. Or fighting. Energy wasted on competing when collaboration is the key. Library books on grief and poetry collections litter my house: the words a comfort for me and those I tend to. Lucy Hone , New Zealand’s own resilience expert; a tiny guide to sit in the palm of your hand or gift to a friend who need
Read more

Three little words

Image
Sleepless in Stonefields. It is two or three a.m. and I’m wide awake, thinking about Russell Brand. Transformation best describes him, a man whose life turned around 180 degrees. He’s my go-to podcast in the wee small hours, though that harsh “Mockney”accent grates in the darkness. The Under the Skin taster (I have to subscribe to hear the whole thing) is just enough to tempt me, to set the neurons of my sleep-addled brain firing. His guest - a woman whose name I will need to look up - reveals that our metabolism and heart rate is impacted not just by experiences, but by words. Language, that unique, precious and often underrated talent of humans, has the ability to influence our physiological state. She - I cannot find her name - assures me that even a text from across the globe can have significant impact, three little words enough to start the heart palpitating. And then it stops, the podcast preview. I am left hanging. So I create my own, my texts of three little words. I keep it
Read more

Let me tell you

Image
She asks us to write, as we sit alone in our kitchens, our bedrooms, our cupboards, the glow of others’ laptops beaming through our screens. I shuffle, I stand, I adjust the lighting, not sure that I like what I see reflected in the glass tonight. It’s been a tough day, and I am bruised, deeply. The irony strikes me like the freight trains I hear at night when the prevailing wind blows. My kindness, my diligence, my attempt to support others’ well-being has ended in my own being irreparably damaged. The world is hurting right now, so I am right at home with millions of others, just when I thought I was immune. Let me tell you about marriage. This is our prompt from the gentle woman who is leading the creative writing webinar. “Just let it flow,” she says, as my pencil hovers above the untidy scribbles on the page. I cannot write about marriage. There is nothing in my head, nothing of value. For who am I to tell you about marriage, a woman without a husband? I feel disingenuous, a phony
Read more