I went to the crematorium this morning to the garden of rest to feel close to my departed family.
The last decade took so many from us. Their place now is a simple patch of earth, lawned and with a holly tree growing nearby. An evergreen seems apt.
In the soil are the people who built me. A kind grandfather who was academic but with a wicked sense of humour. A grandmother who had a strong sense of propriety and cleanliness, but ever had a biscuit or cake tin near by to give out home made treats. An uncle who made us all laugh, and who encouraged me to help him work on cars before I was old enough to tie shoe laces. An aunt who was sometimes like a second mother.
They are different to my wife’s family, who are middle class and somehow detached and reluctant. But in my family there was no question you could not ask, no subject that could not be discussed. There was just love. A house that always smelled of cooking, and hospitality was so important that the postman would have breakfast with us in the kitchen.
I’m grateful those of us who are left. The world has been merciful to us compared to some families. My daughters don’t really understand what we are doing here. I haven’t explained it as well as their mother can. So they have wondered off to collect conkers from under the trees.
So I sat there looking at a patch of grass thinking about the Christmases, days at the football, air shows, barbecues, village summer fetes, and the trips to the beach. A strange mix of happy and sad. And gratitude that I was there.
In the soil are the people who built me. A kind grandfather who was academic but with a wicked sense of humour. A grandmother who had a strong sense of propriety and cleanliness, but ever had a biscuit or cake tin near by to give out home made treats. An uncle who made us all laugh, and who encouraged me to help him work on cars before I was old enough to tie shoe laces. An aunt who was sometimes like a second mother.
They are different to my wife’s family, who are middle class and somehow detached and reluctant. But in my family there was no question you could not ask, no subject that could not be discussed. There was just love. A house that always smelled of cooking, and hospitality was so important that the postman would have breakfast with us in the kitchen.
I’m grateful those of us who are left. The world has been merciful to us compared to some families. My daughters don’t really understand what we are doing here. I haven’t explained it as well as their mother can. So they have wondered off to collect conkers from under the trees.
So I sat there looking at a patch of grass thinking about the Christmases, days at the football, air shows, barbecues, village summer fetes, and the trips to the beach. A strange mix of happy and sad. And gratitude that I was there.
41-45, M
