I watched the Queen’s funeral live on my laptop last month. Coincidentally, it was on Respect for the Aged Day, ‘Keiro no Hi’, a national holiday here in Japan, so I was able to watch it all without having to juggle my schedule. I was mesmorised by all the ceremony, all the colours, all the moves and music that had obviously been planned and practiced over many years and finally during the hours before being shown to the world, through the night when most of us were asleep. As I watched in Japan, family and friends in the UK and around the world were making comments on social media. I can’t think of another event when I lived the moment with so many people in different time zones. I don’t even think the 70th Jubilee celebrations could match that.
Since the funeral of Queen Elizabeth II, the members of the RF have been back to business it seems. Part of the job. I remember when my dad died like it was yesterday. I was a mess. And that mess didn’t just last a few weeks, but many months. I do remember that once I got through the firsts of everything, the first birthday, the first Christmas, the first anniversary, things became a lot easier, but still there were times when I was caught out. It was the first time I had been to a funeral. I was 44, which I think is rather old to be debuting, but living in Japan I hadn’t been able to attend any of the family funerals until then. I remember one of the last things I did as his daughter was to sign my name when I went with my sister to register his death. It was a simple gesture, in private and, of course, without ceremony. For me that was the least I could do, but it was one of the hardest. I was officially recognising that a life had passed and from then onwards I was only going to be able to carry his memory.
Dad’s funeral was a day I’ll never forget. The ceremonial walk of the undertaker ahead of the car to the end of our road. The neighbours who stood at the roadside paying their respects. The drive through the English countryside to the church surrounded by fields of gold. The long line of cars parked leading to the church. Family, friends and many who I had no idea who they were or how they knew Dad. A packed church. Music. Prayers. A wonderful send off as no doubt every family does for their own. But it was my first, and to this day is my last. I’m 57.
From time to time I post Dad’s photo on social media. His birthday, or the anniversary of his death. Sometimes on race day of the Great North Run or the Blaydon Race. Occasionally there is some mention of him from someone he used to train at the boxing club he started at the end of the 70s. A legacy of sorts as those boys have grown into men who started businesses, raised families and made names for themselves. Some of them still carry Dad’s memory with them as they go about their lives. He is no doubt remembered. His legacy lives on.
There is no grave. Only a plaque on a bench at the beach facing the North Sea where we scattered Dad’s ashes one day in late summer. A happy place. Where he used to go. A place that is always changing. A place with no limits. North, south, east, west … the ultimate in freedom for the soul. Leaving no specific wishes, Dad would have approved.
And so that place has become a must visit place every time I go home. Sitting on that bench. Looking into the distance and feeling the connection. Shivering cold mornings, warm afternoons, breezy evenings, all interspersed with the drops of rain that can happen at any time. His single plaque that was, now has neighbours. Testament of time passing. More families in sadness. More lives being honoured. Respect for the aged, the young, the sick, the child, partner, spouse and more.
But now that special place for me and others has been tarnished with the news of the City of Edinburgh’s confirmation that the ashes of a serial killer ‘were dispersed into the sea’ following a cremation carried out by the local authority as no one had come forward to claim the body. I suppose we should be glad for transparency in this time when that is what we require of everyone and every authority. Nothing hush hush. Out with it. I'm guessing no one on the committee which decided this, has ever scattered the ashes of a loved one in the sea. This feeling I have now after reading about this an hour or two ago, will no doubt disappear, but it feels like desecration of a grave. What a way to begin a Monday.
Comments