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.




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