A funeral

• » print
• » report
• » email

The last summerlike day it was, when we walked behind the hearse to the graveyard to burry my mother, who died September 20. We all carried one white rose.

The ceremony had been sober, with my husband speaking about her life, my text.  We had some music. There were people from the island, but also from Belgium even who wanted to pay their respects. It was a warm, friendly ceremony.

Although the sky had a lead grey colour, a beam of sunshine made it to the earth and it was a sort of goodbye I thought. My mother always liked to be in the sun.  

It must sound strange, but that moment I almost felt happy. I all of the sudden just knew she was better of . For some one who doesn't believe in the afterlife, like me, that was quite a surprise, I can tell you.

The cemetery is in the dunes, in a pinewood.  No pavements, the graves just lay there a bit unorganized, the way we like it here. It wasn't easy to climb towards the grave, where my father also is burried, to throw in my rose.  A lot of sand got in my shoes. I had to step on another grave so I said sorry to the man laying there.

I wore a skirt. My mother hated pants and as a child I wasn't allowed to wear them. So I decided at least on her funeral I would obey. For once. The last thing I did for my mother.

After the burrial there were the handshakes, the condoleances, there was  the coffee and the cake (Potjekoek, a local variation of a 'tulband'). And later on, the booze.

Guests from the mainland had to catch ferries. The children left a few days later, husband went back to work. I also pick up my life now and move on.  I don't think I will wear a skirt again very soon though. I don't sit very ladylike.

Bye mama. Who knows,  we will meet again.