It was my Gran’s funeral. Just me, my Mum and Dad, and my brother at Bournemouth cremetorium to say our farewells. And it was my first funeral – I didn’t go to my grandad’s because at the last minute my Gran decided that she didn’t want to go, so she came over to the cottage and I stayed with her whilst the others went off – so this time I went along and could say goodbye to both of them.
My mum did a good job at arranging a small service that I think my Gran would have approved of. The vicar just read the hymn because there weren’t enough of us to sing, and my mum read Fern Hill by Dylan Thomas rather than go for a eulogy. Later in the summer we shall take the ashes to bury with the rest of the family in the (now to be full) grave at Freshford (near Bath) – I think there’s just space for one more of the family, so I guess the rest of us will have to find somewhere else.
I’m not religious, but I did find myself thinking of my Gran, now sitting with Granpy sitting playing Scrabble or Crib or doing the crossword with (our old dog) Penny sleeping on the floor between them. I don’t really believe in “going to another place” but I do find it comfortable to think of it as a kind of metaphor for being a peace.
