THE FUNERAL, by Geoff Rodgers

It was to be my first funeral,

Mr Thomas had died, he was 89, and shared a room in a local Care Home with Mrs Thomas, where they had lived for almost 20 years.

They had no family, just the staff in the Care Home who had cared for them.

I asked the staff for some background information as I had not met either of them before.

“You wont get anything from her.” they said sadly, she hasn’t spoken for a long time, she just sits in her chair staring at the floor.

“Thank You,“ I said, and I walked down the plush carpeted corridor to their now half empty double room.

As I was told, Mrs. Thomas was sat in her chair in a semi darkened room, head crouched.

Silent.

I introduced myself, I explained  that I was new to the area, and that I was sorry to hear of her loss.

There was no response.

I told her we would do all we could for her and her husband at the funeral.

I sat in silence.

I looked around the room.

I didn’t know what to do, I wanted to fill the silence, but how?

No amount of training can prepare you for the first time, it’s like going out in a car for the first time after passing your Driving Test. This is where the learning begins.

I sat in silence.

I needed the anecdote, the story, the little nugget about the life of the elderly man who had died.

Something to entertain and touch the congregation who would gather at the village church in four days time.

I sat in silence, it seemed to go on forever.

I reached out and put my hand into hers.

I sat in unbroken silence

Then, I began to pray, very quietly quietly, very slowly.

Our Father, who art in heaven hallowed be thy name

Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done

On earth as it is in heaven…….

…………Forever and Ever, Amen

Mrs. Thomas whispered “Thank You”

I stayed a few more minutes, in the eternal silence.

I left,

I had my anecdote, I had my story.

Mrs Thomas was unable to attend her husband’s funeral

She died two days later

So began a journey of resurrection.

Copyright Geoff Rodgers 2014

TWO GARDENS, by Pauline Fisk

She cried across the water and her voice was haunting. These were the words spoken by the mother of a murdered girl, reported in the Canadian press. I heard about it over lunch.  Outside there was not a cloud in the sky.  We left the golf club, the three of us, and drove in silence to the cemetery where we found the gate and let ourselves in. 

The graves sloped white against the green lawn, down through woodland to the creek. Here a man who’d been a friend to everyone; there a woman who’d served her country; here a son on whom the sun went down, yet it was still day. 

What struck me, strangely, was how big the headstones were.  Ever since arriving in Canada I’d been noticing size.  Death is but a covered way which opens into life I read on a grave fashioned into a massive stone seat. But facing northwards into shadows - where was life in that?  

Below the seat we found a gravel path between graves. Here William and Johan from Scotland - he the Highlands, she Orkney. There the McDonalds, dating back to the Highland Clearances. Irish Doyles, Calhounes, Hallorans from Cork.  I scribbled down the name Parnaby, thinking I might use it one day. We surveyed Ivor’s plot and thumbs-upped its view, making his day.

As we walked away, I heard a sniff, followed by a distinct and highly unexpected sneeze. They say that death is cold, and I turned cold, because nobody but us was there. I looked around. Sparrows wallowed in the dust. A distant chipmunk did a circus circuit.  Between a screen of perfect trees, Sixteen Mile Creek flowed into Lake Ontario.  

Where that creek came from, I’d no idea, nor what became of it after hitting the lake.  But it was bright, fast and in the here and now and, looking at it, I thought of all those white bones in their graves and hoped the place they’d end up was as bright as Lake Ontario on a day like this.

We left the cemetery by the same gate.  It was good to be back on the street, kicking up dust, sun on our faces. On the way to our hire car we passed what we British call allotments, but Canadians call garden plots. The soil was dryer than back home. Even so, it yielded sunflowers in rows, pumpkins and tomatoes, growing wild, peppers, carrots, peas and beans, dots of marigolds. 

Back in our car we did a u-turn, taking in the cemetery in a single sweep. I hoped that justice would be done and the crying that haunted mother heard across the waters would one day cease. It was my birthday, my sixty-fourth – a point I share because it matters to me, though it’ll be of little significance to anybody else. On the highway, great trucks roared by.

copyright©Pauline Fisk 2014