I didn’t cry. Not really.
The surprising reasoning behind this would be that the whole thing seemed
so unreal.
Somehow I became responsible for leading my grandmother into the church behind the coffin. I wore a skirt, it was beautiful and bought especially for the occasion.
My Nan wept through all of it. And I could handle that, even though I spent most of the service trying to remember if I had ever seen her cry before.
Expecting an old priest/pastor/reverent (whatever the Anglican Church has), I was visibly shocked to see a Dallas Green incarnate minus the tattoos (I kid you not). He had a great speaking voice but I found him to be spooky in his flow-y robes.
As soon as it began I felt like I was acting in a play.
My grandmother, a fellow actor, pretending to sob on my arm. An empty green coffin in front of us. The deep sound of the church bell ringing as we descended down the aisle with the priest/pastor/reverent chanting as we walked.
I began to chew visibly on the peppermint gum in my mouth, something I never do in public. Something I always do when I’m apprehensive.
I wouldn’t visit my grandfather before they closed the coffin. I knew if I did I would forever picture him in that box instead of fishing or chopping wood or fixing us tea or starting a fire in the woodstove or taking me grocery shopping or to Mary Browns or whatever.
Despite all of this, I took comfort in the coffin that sat directly to my left. Something about knowing he was there. So when they picked it up to bring it outside and into the Hearst I momentarily lost it.
This could also be due to the fact that my grandmother went from weeping to great big heaving sobs.
I removed my arm and gently pushed her towards my Dad who had just deposited the only dad he had really ever known into the back of the long car. I couldn’t really deal, you know? I’m ill-equipped.
I made my Mom collect all of the leftover programs to give to me. She asked me why I wanted them. I don’t really know.
I didn’t go to the graveyard. We sang the graveside hymn in church since it was raining and thundering and foggy. Plus my shoes were unsuitable. Plus my grandfather was getting put in the ground.
I was the first to leave Little Harbour. I wanted to get back to St. John’s to meet Darryl at the airport. His flight had been delayed and he missed the funeral after all of the hooplah to try and get home in time.
When passing the graveyard on the way to the highway I saw that they almost had him entirely buried already.
I ached for my Poppy White’s big jittery hug in that single moment.
P.S. Thanks everyone for all your help and words and calls and messages and stickers and love and prayers. Seriously.
