Groundhog Day ...

I am sitting at my kitchen table. It is mid-afternoon, I think, and the cat is sleeping in the sun. She is my constant companion, the ball of fluff so warm and soft, the purr that drowns out most sorrows. She needs me, especially as the years roll on. It’s a reciprocal relationship, unconditional and uncompromising.

Back to the table. My laptop is switched on, and I am perched on the uncomfortable chair that looks good in the shop, but isn’t designed for good posture. I click on the link, and tune in before the livestream starts, seeing the back of heads, a sombre mood in the large space. He was well known, my friend David, so when the MC opens by saying how the skills of Toastmasters will get him through, I’m encouraged.

I wear two hats: a curse and a blessing, a distraction and a focus. As a friend, I am gutted that my famous friend has died, so unexpectedly, before I had a chance to say goodbye. And yet, as a celebrant, I am appalled – there is no ceremony, no ritual, nothing that draws the service together. Tears run down my cheeks, crying for the loss of my friend, for the loneliness I feel, for a service he would have hated.

Valentines Day, 2023. Cyclone Gabrielle strikes, and we are thrown into chaos. My property is flooded, but I escape before it’s too late, the cat evacuating with me, skittish around the exuberant black puppy who joins us. A few days later, the phone rings: my friend Roger in Gisborne has died, his dementia and anxiety leading to a painful blockage that cannot be remedied. I want to deliver the funeral, but the detour – with no access through the water-logged and isolated town of Wairoa – will take 12 hours, an impossible trip. So, I am sitting at my kitchen table, mid-afternoon, I think, and the cat is sleeping in the sun. Tears stream down my face, as I watch the livestream, portraying the life of this handsome and gentle man, whose essence was stripped away with a horrid disease. Someone reads my tribute, but there are no hugs, no warm bodies, no chats afterwards over hot tea and sticky ginger crunch.

I am sitting at my kitchen table, mid-afternoon I think, and the cat is gone. Her ashes are in a tiny box, along with two beautiful cards from my feline-loving friends, which I read over and over again. I am living even further away, in a city with windswept beaches and high unemployment, ferries a regular sight on the waves. The livestream has started, and the celebrant is wonderful. Her round belly, her beautiful face, her love of her aunt is clear for everyone to see. The ceremony is sad, warm, funny. Lee, my friend, has courageously recorded her own farewell, so typical of her sass and determination. After the ceremony, I see them in the crowd, my pseudo sons, and suddenly the tears start falling again, hot and salty on my cheeks. I want to hug these young men and their mum – I am desperate to be in the room with them, not eight hours away in Wellington.

I am sitting at my kitchen table, mid-afternoon I think, the foster cat sprawled out on the settee. Two more deaths, two more livestreams. The celebrants forget that I am online, that I need to feel part of the ceremony too. I cry a little, but the energy is different – no passion, no shared grief, no sense of belonging. It takes a special person to deliver a funeral, a warmth that is tempered with reverence, with respect. 

I am sitting in the overflowing chapel, full of stunned guests who are still coming to grips with the unexpected death of a woman who seemed so vibrant. I have returned to live in Tamaki Makaurau, no longer able to be away from my friends, no longer willing to risk dying in the capital. I am surrounded by people I know, and we laugh and cry and sing, and we are glad to be together, the celebrant guiding us gently through the ceremony. We talk afterwards, over a scolding cup of tea and ginger crunch, reminding ourselves why we need each other at this tough time: to acknowledge life and death, to grieve, to share stories, to remember, to feel part of a community.

I am sitting at my kitchen table. It is early morning. I am home.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Unstoppable

Image
It is 1990, the year of the Commonwealth Games in Auckland, amongst the cast of volunteers, my old and vivacious friend, Elizabeth. She’s an ardent volunteer, joining her family at the Mission for Christmas lunch, doing great things that make a difference. Generous with her time, her enthusiasm. She is unstoppable, I think. I am newly arrived in Auckland, and have casual work for a crew who bring exchange students to NZ from my other home, Japan. I’m tasked with finding host families, securing a local venue, creating a programme, and delivering it to the 10 or so students, in a mix of English and Japanese. Friday the 23rd of February, and the kids come to my house, a low-key party for one of the women who is celebrating her birthday, far from friends and family in a foreign land. Lizzy drops by, and true to form, she brings a gift for the guest of honour, even though this is the first time they have met. We take a photo on the bare deck with my tiny camera, long before mobile phone...
Read more

Dying to Know

Image
The brown paper package is lying on your doorstep, and a shudder of excitement goes through your body as you anticipate opening it. The courier came half an hour ago, but you were in an online meeting, a hui about a hui, a discussion you needed to have, as unresolved tension threatens to destroy the team. Today you’re WFH, and you’ve boiled the jug, a steaming cup of Earl Grey waiting for you on the table, a single square of chocolate your morning treat. There’s a certain heft about the package, a weight you hadn’t anticipated, as you gently slide a knife through the tape that holds the cardboard together. You’ll keep the sturdy box, storing it beside the toolkit and the family history, old photographs of the kids when they were young and cute. The curly strips of wood fall onto the floor as you lift out the crystal ball, its surface shining, specks of glitter embedded into the pale blue glass. It seems to hum with an energy, as the warmth of your hands clasp the ball, embracing it, ...
Read more

The favourite child

Image
“He’s your favourite,” he moans, looking distraught and hurt. I laugh. No, not out loud, but the laugh that only parents know, maybe only mums. This is not a zero sum game. Every child is precious, welcomed to the world with open arms. As I write this, I realise it is true in my privileged corner of the world, unconscious bias raising its head, as it does. There are many babies that come forth unwanted, but today I will write of my experience, my aroha, my life. I remember Sofie’s Choice , a movie so powerful, so raw. I see Meryl Streep, beautiful even in her gauntness, standing in the dark by the grimy railway track, the soldiers demanding she must decide: her daughter or her son? An impossible choice, and one I hope never to make. (Photo: Rob McEldowney, circa 1999) But this post is not about favourite children, (except that it is). It’s about favourite books, favourite songs (strains of Julie Andrews ring in my ears - “raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens”), and favourite foo...
Read more