And there’s a box of my grandpa’s and dad’s ties in my
wardrobe because I don’t know what to do with them. I have neatly coiled them
and put them in a Christmas cake tin, because that is what seems appropriate
and dignified – don’t ask me why.
I’m
trying to collect my mother’s handwritten notes hidden about the house and in
the pages of books but it’s like trying to capture darting butterflies in an
unwieldy net. A page fell out of a map the other day: ‘There’s a dog sanctuary
at STOWMARKET can can [sic] see if they advertise?’, and my handwritten
directions on the back, bearing right and bearing left all over Suffolk. It is now on display on my chest of drawers,
propped up over a baby picture of my son. There is no logic to these gestures,
other than they spark a small chemical reaction inside the heart – you believe
you are dignifying the memory of a loved one and you feel better and your step
is a little lighter, I suppose.
A ceremony and a gathering summarise the life of a bright
soul and enable us in part to make sense of what we believe to be too short a
time here. There was a concentration of
thought and emotion and a reverent hush before the service, except in the row
behind me where an animated pair pointed out so-and-so and someone else, and murmured
of the new ‘lady vicar’. It brought a smile to my face. We are all the same –
curious and gossipy but capable of comfort and empathy for those who have lost.
Afterwards the congregation piled out of the church and lined up outside, and
slyly looked to see whether that couple was still going strong and if someone
had aged well, and whether that old flame lived up to the memories.
And so I continue with my sorting – which I know will never
end – and the processing of the memories and the layers of joy, questioning and
healing that have slipped in between the tissue paper.
