"Funerals are for the living, not for the dead," my partner has always said. Funerals allow those of us left behind to express grief over our lost loved one, who is already gone. I poured my heart and soul into Holly's funeral. I gave her in death all the things I couldn't give her in life. I spent the weeks since her brief existence, planning every moment, sourcing the right things to remember her by, making things by hand, recording the music myself. I even carried her up the aisle... And her funeral was everything I wished it to be. It was beautiful, and touching, and poignant. It was far better attended than I could have ever hoped for, and I am moved by all those who came to say goodbye to my baby girl, who they never met in life. Her funeral allowed everyone who never met her the opportunity to grieve. I never turned around during the service, but I could hear the crying behind me. It was as it should be... And yet, I barely shed a tear.
It took so much planning, so much mental effort. Adrenaline kicked in a few hours before the service, and in the immediate run-up, all I could feel was anxiety. I wanted it to be perfect. Then I was presented with familiar faces; faces of loved ones, in greater numbers than I had expected. I felt a strange contradiction of emotions; joy at seeing people I hadn't seen in a while, a strong desire to hug everyone, and to laugh with them... But everyone wanted to give me their sympathy, yet I wanted to smile, and laugh, and catch up, and hear good news about their lives! And there were enough people present to make it difficult to get around everyone... it felt important to mingle, to make sure nobody was missed out.
During the service, I never felt present. I stared at her beautiful tributes, and her sweet little casket (so like a Moses basket). But she was already gone. I didn't hear the sermon, except for the moment our lovely pastor choked up. It was the only time I zoned in. At the moment she cried for us, it felt real.
I knew the songs by heart, because I had recorded them myself. I knew the poems by heart (printed by hand). I can relive her funeral, and it was beautiful, but I barely shed a tear at the time.
Funerals are for the living, not for the dead. But, for me, I would go one step further. Funerals allow guests to grieve, and can even provide a sense of closure. I've been to funerals before where I have cried throughout the entire service and wondered how on earth the family are holding it together so well. When you "host" a funeral, it can be very different. When you have planned every moment, it may not be the "final goodbye" anticipated. For me, those goodbyes had already taken place... For some, a funeral is a necessary conclusion. But for some of us living on a daily basis with grief, a funeral changes nothing...
I am glad everyone else got the chance to meet her, and to grieve for her. I am proud of her send-off. I will remember it as a beautiful service. But I was not able to grieve. Not at her funeral.
Now two days on, I realise there is no conclusion - nothing has changed. And I am faced with a new reality. The feeling of emptiness that she left behind, that I have tried to fill with planning, and with words, and with "beauty"... that feeling will never go. That emptiness is part of my world now. The chasm didn't close with her funeral, the void lives on. After all the well-wishes, and the heartfelt condolences, and the fun-filled laughter of friends, I realise as I stare out of the window at the snow, that this emptiness is my new normal. There is beauty in sorrow, there is beauty in song, there is beauty in snow, and there is certainly beauty in friendships (I value those friendships now, like never before). But this emptiness, this silence... The emptiness is not beautiful. It is hard to accept. The emptiness hurts like nothing else.
I smiled, and I laughed with friends at her funeral. And I will smile and laugh again. I cherish the thoughts of well-wishers, the refrain of a song, the twinkling beauty of fairy-lights, the perfection of freshly fallen snow. And above all else, I cherish the cuddles of my wonderful son. In all of those things, there is gladness, and gratitude; there is beauty, and yes, there is happiness. But the emptiness will always be there, hidden behind the smiles. Emptiness is my new normal, and it always will be.
Snow settling on the holly tree.
"The first tree in the greenwood, it was the holly."
"The first tree in the greenwood, it was the holly."
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