Of Paper and Parties

As a child I never understood funerals. Why have a party to be sad?

My interpretation was that parties were full of joy and celebration and cake, not crying and scant canapés. Perhaps this was not really a party.

At that stage I had only been to one funeral. My great-grandmother had died, but I could not remember her enough to feel much about the matter. I should also note that I did not know what death was, but who really does?

The people there were sallow. Any colour that existed outside was drained, left at the door. It was cold, despite the summertime, and all the attendees wore modest blacks. It was desperately boring.

The worst part was the cocktail of emotions simmering beneath all those glassy eyes. I would look up and see pain in place of my mother’s smile, and a tear where her rosy cheeks had been. I was mortified when my dad began to laugh after I asked him why we were here, and why Mummy was so sad. No one was enjoying themselves; why would he laugh? To my undeveloped sensibilities it seemed rude.

As the afternoon grew old the funeral got brighter and joy trickled in like a dripping pipe. I left the wake utterly bemused.

My next run in Death was not long after that funeral.

There was no burial. No black mourning garbs. It felt lacklustre, but it hurt me more. Even now I struggle to think of it.

Since I was still young - I could not comprehend why my golden retriever Achilles would not be given the same send off my great-grandmother had. He was nicer than her, and I loved him more than I ever knew I could. It was not right that he should not be given the same remembrance as an old woman. I understand now that it has nothing to do with love.

My dog had been around for as long as I had, and we had grown together. Achilles was as good as my brother, and to see him pass away was heartbreaking. I can’t imagine what my parents were thinking, bringing me to the vet. They have never quite earned my forgiveness.

I remember that day in a fog. A vision of cold, flickering fluorescent lights and a stainless lino floor. Achilles slumped at my feet, chest rising slowly. Devastated tears rolled down my cheeks, dripping into his buttery fur.

That night at dinner I couldn’t stomach anything, and refused to look at the mantlepiece where I knew Achilles would be. It had felt like the most natural thing in the world to crush my crayons and scrunch my craft paper, like they perpetrated my grief. My dad did not laugh this time, but Mummy gave me a watery smile. I never drew with crayons again.

Watching my classmate suffer like I had revealed to me what I must have looked like after Achilles. The girl was out of school for a few days. We didn’t know what had happened, but we innately knew something was amiss. Teachers muttered in corridors and skipped over her name in the roll. We thought she was injured. She was, in a way. After a week she was back and Ms Arthur had instructed us to treat her normally, but give her space. She was washed out; stretched thin, like Gladwrap over a too large bowl.

“Are you okay?”

“No.”

At lunch she stayed in the classroom. We came back in and her lip wobbled when Daphne asked her why she had not come out with us. Our friend tore the paper she was holding in half with a vengeance before grabbing her maths book from the table and treating us to an encore. A few minutes later she was surrounded by shreds. No one made a sound, not even a giggle. She had been out west for her brother’s funeral.

Now I have a few more years at my side, but funerals don’t make much more sense. My grandpa wouldn’t want people to sob over him, not with how he wanted to be remembered. He was always the life of the party with his dad jokes and illicit candy stash. It did not track that he should make people so miserable.

This mourning was less frigid than my great-grandmother’s; it was wetter. Everyone was bawling buckets.

For a moment I stepped back and looked on as an observer, locking away my own grief on the matter, attempting to disconnect myself.

This was ridiculous. All these black-clothed men and women tearing up over little old Grandpa. He deserved a proper party.

So, I did as my dad had once done so many years ago.

I laughed.

I still don’t understand funerals, but I know grief a little better.