A different kind of funeral

By Liz Doig

On Easter Sunday, my aunt died. She had suffered a catastrophic stroke a few days earlier. She was a sweet, kind person who was happy to wear the daisy chains I made her as a kid, who knit with a needle tucked under her arm – and who was always interested in what you’d been up to. She was 75.

Her funeral was on Wednesday this week. Normally I’d have been there with the rest of my family. There would have been hugs. Tears. Shared memories. Drinks in the pub. Promises to do better at keeping in touch. A coming together in the strange, space-time disconnect that is bereavement. But instead, there could only be two people at her service who had known her and loved her.

Family members living too far away tracked down florists still open for business and able to deliver. We wanted to make sure she was surrounded by flowers in the bright colours she loved. We took a little comfort that at least we were able to do this. Still, this person who was so sociable in life was only going to have few people around her this final time.

But then, arranged by who, I have no idea, something deeply touching happened. As the funeral limousine pulled up, neighbours along their street of 30-odd houses came out into the road, many dressed in funeral clothes, some holding flowers, all of them respecting distances.

They’d found a different way to say goodbye to their friend. The person who smiled and waved at them every day as she walked her dog. The person who had time for anyone and everyone.

They lined the street as she took her last journey on this earth – and showed not just how loved she was, but how people can pull together and show support and solidarity even in the strangest of times.

God bless, Andi.

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