We’re back at N’s Dad’s. But it’s not N’s Dad’s house now. It’s A’s, his wife’s. His widow’s. Today we planned a funeral. Not the first time I’ve helped plan a funeral (the first was my Grandmother’s. A different sort of affair – neither Mum nor I were particularly upset: she was 92, and while she was always loving to me, she wasn’t so loving to Mum). Won’t be the last. Will be, like these thing should be, a good send off.
The silence is almost oppressive. No snores from the next room. No Radio 2 filling the gaps. He is not here. He really is not here. All the medical stuff is gone, at last. All the phone numbers on the board. There’s more boxes of tissues in case of need. The house is full of him, and it’s full of people: but he is not here.
If I Should Go – Joyce Grenfell
If I should go before the rest of you
Break not a flower nor inscribe a stone
Nor when I’m gone speak in a Sunday voice
But be the usual selves that I have known
Weep if you must
Parting is hell
But life goes on
So sing as well.