Funerals - a poignant reminder of lives lived and lost
It would be wonderful to say that I had a childhood blissfully ignorant of death and the chaos and heartbreak it sweeps in with. I was eight years old when my paternal Grandmother died. She died unexpectedly, a blood clot that travelled from her leg to her heart and stopped its beating. I have memories of her alive but the most vivid memory I have - over 50 years later- is of her funeral. Her casket was open at the front of the country church. We, the family, sat through the service and looked at the body - my Grandma but not my Grandma. At the end of the service we were forced to sit and watched as every person filed past us, final goodbyes murmured, eyes averted from us. And then it was our turn. I watched as my proud Grandpa sobbed , leaned into the coffin and said aloud that he wished he was dead. My Dad, a Momma’s boy, fell apart. I remember being scared and bewildered as all the adults around me were wracked with grief. I didn’t know it was grief, I just knew that my ...
