The Observer’s Guide to Grief: The Funeral

“You will be surprised how suddenly
The day that seemed so far away
Arrives. The gap
Is exactly as long as it needs to be,
But do not expect
To be ready.
On the morning of your loved-one’s
funeral
The steady stream of old,
familiar faces
Coming to your door
May give you the idea
That everything will be alright. And
It will be,
One day;
But not today.
If
You should allow
All the hugs
And the smiles
And the do-you-remember-that-times
To carry you away,
Then
The sucker-punch of opening the door
To a stranger carrying a top-hat
Will make you keel over.
And the sight of his stretched-out
Jet-black car
And the knowledge you will want to ignore
Of …what — of…who? Of -
Of the contents of
That box in the back
May well make you lose your footing.
So hold on tight to the doorframe
Until the earthquake subsides.
His practiced, wan, polite half-smile
Will tell you it is time
To be driven behind that car, that box
On a journey that simply cannot be
Anything but shit.
If you have arranged for flowers
Spelling out a word, like “MUM”
This drive will be a good time to study them
And reflect upon the florist’s skill
Or lack thereof, and contemplate
The absurdity and brevity of life.
Later or sooner you will arrive
At a less or more sacred venue
For some kind of celebration
Of the life of the departed.
Many things will be said
And some of them will be true.
You may find it wiser to wonder
Whether pall-bearers wear shoulder-pads
Than whether the fragile hope that is offered
Offers any help to you. And if
You have the opportunity to speak
The advice of the writers of this book
Is that you use it to offer
As frail a hope as you can find
To the other attendees.
After, perhaps, another drive,
It will be time for the box that has travelled with you
To go to
A different place.
This may involve a curtain or a shovel
And if the latter, be prepared
For the sensation of the clammy, hungry earth upon your fingers
As you symbolically participate
In the burying of
Your (mother/father/sister/brother/boyfriend/girlfriend/husband/other:_______Delete them
As appropriate)
You may now have another drive
To a place with triangular sandwiches
And, if you are lucky, alcohol.
As this last journey begins, steel yourself
For the realisation that the box and the flowers
Are accompanying you no longer.
A physical reaction to this metaphysical thought
Is not at all uncommon
In our experience.
And finally,
While you can,
Eat, and drink, and be merry
For tomorrow -
A new chapter begins.”
This is the third “excerpt” from my so-far nonexistent book, “The Observer’s Guide to Grief”. See the earlier poems here: Day One and Eulogy Writing, or the latest poem in the cycle, The Calendar.
