The funeral

English: Red roses

Red roses, her favourites (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

All those things to remember. We had a visit from the funeral home last Wednesday. He took us through all the details. What kind of coffin, what clothes we wanted her to wear, the flower arrangements, the psalms, advertisement, forms, costs, inheritance, testament… My brother and sister were there, and my other old aunt. (The one with a taste for red wine, who got the fresh caught fish on the summer party last Saturday). She is the sister of the very old aunt who died.

We all thought we remembered what songs and singers we used for the last funeral. We didn’t. It was the same man from the funeral home, who came to see us then, who we met again now. He had some of our funeral history on his computer. Goes to show that it’s not just me who goes “blank” in situations like these. We also had to talk to the priest, who gazed at my “Om”-pendant… Don’t think he is of the most tolerant ones. Anyway, we talked about the very old aunt for a while, for him to have enough information to put together a memorial speech.

I have no idea how many will come to the service, she outlived all her friends. The family comes of course, the same 20 something that came at the summer party. Some family from other parts of the country is also coming. And there must be some cousins, and maybe old colleagues. Though, who would you expect to remember you, when it’s 30 years since you retired?

We ordered red roses to decorate the coffin. They were her favourites. The coffin is white, I like better the oak ones.y

I hope the day goes by without me coming out of my state of indifference. I think it’s strange, but also a bit good, to see that my brother and sister feel awkvard. It sort of tells me that I can’t be alone with my experiences from my childhood. It tells me that it’s true, things were bad. I don’t feel any need to mourn. I know that our story keep us closer together than most people, only it doesn’t, really. Anyone who loses their mother as a child has a story. Not sure if I can explain this properly, but it is nothing but an act. We do what is expected. We act as if we have great affection for each other, but hardly ever meet, other than Christmas, or my summer party. The dialogue is nothing to be proud of, bad actors…

I don’t want to do very much about this. And right now, I just hope this day goes into history with nothing to remember.

No, not very mindful today. I’ll visit my feelings tomorrow.

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Another death in the family

She was old, my aunt, she was  94. Born in the last year of WW1. Second oldest of seven, four girls and three boys. Every one of them went away to study, engineering, chemistry, this one, she studied to be a teacher. Later on she got to be a special eds teacher, one of few. She worked at the same school for more than 40 years.

She never married, and she lived in the house next door. She looked after her old parents, they lived there too.

Yesterday she died, she had been in and out since the weekend, and there was no drama.

I am not sure when I saw her last. For the last ten years, she’s been demented, talking about the war… Mixing our names together, and been ill, so many times.

I don’t really feel anything.

Its not like I am suppressing any feelings, and there is no shock. No loss, no sorrow. A bit relieved, she was tired. I remember her talking about dying, I guess tomorrow, when we get together to plan the funeral, we will find that she probably made plans. Twenty years ago…

I don’t look forward to the funeral, the family (again) and all the stuff we have to do. It is me and my brother and sister who has to do it all. We just did this… four years ago. There has been so many deaths in my family, we are used to it. That sounds terrible. I know.

Some colour to brighten up your day?

Can you remember opening a brand new box of crayons? I can. I would just look at them, see how the different shades of red shifted into pink or orange, and then to yellow. My brother would just throw them all in a big cake tin we had. Mix the old ones together with the new ones. I could never do that. I would keep them in the exact same place in the original box, and open and close carefully, so that it wouldn’t get torn.

If it was a big box, I would perhaps make a small dot, marking the specific spot for each of the crayons. So that they would get back where they belong.

Amazing how colours can affect your mood. Black is for sorrow, white means clean, orange (my favourite) is energy, red is both love and affection, blue… well blue.

Don’t know why yellow got such a bad rumour, at least in my country, it means cowards, and green is new. Sometimes in a negative context.

I had to think about colours today… Feeling a bit down, as one of my aunts are very poorly. There are only two of my father’s siblings left, living here in my town. This is not the one who attended the summer party, though considering the amount of wine an 89 year old women can pour down, she probably felt rather… blue… the day after. This is about the oldest one, and the way it looks now, she won’t see much of the summer coming up. They told me she might die anytime. But they have said that before… So I don’t know. She is 94. We haven’t spoken for years, I have some problems dealing with his family, and so I just don’t. This is where I should probably investigate my feelings on forgiveness. Someone did know, maybe not to what extent wrong things happened in the old house with the large garden, but I can’t help thinking that someone could have done something. She was the next door neighbour.

My youngest daughter told me that when they were kids, I had a really large box with crayons, watercolours, felt tip pens and colour pencils. She remembered it as a lovely childhood memory. She might be a bit like me, that one!

Update:
Just as I was publishing this, my old aunt died. How strange is that?