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.