You can have the funeral you need to have for yourself, not for the mass of people who think they are more important, or think they know how things ‘should be done’. Every funeral I had ever attended had left me angry and lost. When I had responsibility for my mother’s funeral, I was going to do it in a way that spoke to me. She had an orchard burial, willow coffin, poems and close family members only.
Having the family dog at the graveside is the most natural thing. Five adults, one child and a Saluki, made possible because the whole thing took place outside in the perfect October drizzle.
People can be unexpectedly wonderful. I asked the local florist for suggestions for flowers for the grave, something simple, native perhaps, didn’t want fancy, overblown wreaths. I told her our plans. She went into the back of the shop, came out with a box of tulips. They were a day or two old, slightly open. No one will buy these, she said, here, please take them. We both had bright, wet eyes.
Getting personally involved is both cathartic and visceral, profound. We lowered my mother into the grave ourselves, feeling her weight, our bodies adjusting to their charge. No strangers in sombre suits and professional faces. We cast flowers onto the coffin, cried, and hugged each other, remembered her.
Following your heart, or gut, not the expectations of an entrenched funeral culture is very freeing, I thoroughly recommend it.
About Sally Harrop
Sally’s mum had dementia for several years, before dying from complications after catching a cold.
You can follow Sally on Twitter, @MoonAntlers
