A bit of progress today, conversations with the undertaker, the church minister and the solicitor. Now at last I have some idea of what I am expected to do under the terms of Aunt’s will and funeral plans.
So first up, a decision about the coffin. I think it’ll be willow, or wicker. The sort with the rounded end. With spring flowers, preferably native to these islands and in shades of pink and mauve. So first snag. It’s winter, not many flowers around. Or at least there ought not to be but as it was so mild before Christmas there are some. I am wondering about hyacinths. But if you have suggestions, do step forward now.
In the meantime:
Mum’s hair wasn’t good. I do hope there is a better celestial hairdresser sorting her out. She had lovely thick white hair, and was always careful of her appearance. I get my scruffy gene from my father. Bear was lying on her chest. Much too regimented. I moved him to one side and tucked the poem I wrote to her in January underneath him. I put the pink scarf on the other side. Something else was wrong but I didn’t work it out until after I had left; her pyjama jacket was done up to the neck. Over formal, and very un-Mother. I spoke to the undertaker later and told him. He’s going to fix it.
At the newsagents I picked up a local paper. I was fussily looking for the nicest copy. The woman behind the counter looked at me oddly. “My mother’s death notice is in it,” I explained. She understood. Her own mother died in January. She guided me to the correct page. I am not sure why I bought it, but I expect I’ll get a copy of the national paper on Saturday where it appears too. I gave my card in at the florists’ and had my handwriting admired. Things are slotting into place. In some ways I never want the funeral to happen. I remeber after my father’s funeral most people seemed to think that was that, for us, a strange new existence was just beginning. You would think that since all of us experiences bereavement we would be better at understanding its effects. The time allowed off work following a death is derisory. Would you want a recently bereaved surgeon to operate on you? I shouldn’t. The idea of a train driver whose concentration is distracted as mine is just now is terrifying. Continue reading