A very real funeral.

A man who has worked for our family for years came to tell us of the death of his beloved wife.  His grief was palpable, he sobbed unashamedly, a broken man.  We made him tea, gave him tissues and rescue remedy. Words for him were meaningless, but we uttered the usual platitudes.  He said he wanted to come to work to keep his mind off his loss.  A day or two later as he washed the car, he cried silently, tears rolling down his weathered cheeks.  I asked if he wanted to go home and he said no.  His concern was giving his wife a beautiful funeral.  This man is very poor, his life has been a struggle, yet he approaches everything with a can do attitude.  He has recently acquired a new house in a slightly better area than the ghetto he had lived in for so many years and the reason, ultimately, why his wife succumbed to tuberculosis.  She sadly never had the chance to hang frilly curtains at her new glass kitchen window.  We stepped in to help with the funeral.  I asked if I might attend and on a bright, chilly Friday morning, arrived to say goodbye.  The whole neighbourhood was there.  Dogs, children, adults all standing outside the small house.  It was bitterly cold, yet people were dressed in their finery. No stockings or jerseys.  I was greeted and taken to view the body.  I had forgotten that it is the way it is done in their community.  We sanitise death and all we deal with is a small box of ashes.  The coffin was ornate and within the open end was white cloth with purple edging and a face.  A dead cold face.  Her eyes were not entirely closed.  I admit to being taken aback thinking could the undertakers not have glued them shut.   Her children, all young adults, stood holding each other sobbing.  I do not usually attend funerals because I feel the pain of others acutely.  Holding back tears for me is very difficult.  I feel a little like a fraud appearing to cry for someone I don't know well.  In that community, though, emotions are worn on sleeves and it is refreshing not to have to hold back.   After scores of people had quietly shuffled past the open coffin and paid their respects, the coffin was carried from the house, slid into the hearse.  We drove slowly to the church.  The church was a run down building and the pastor nowhere to be found.  He was eventually located and the coffin was moved into the building.  I was asked to be a pall bearer.  The service began and the pastor, a charismatic preacher.  I almost jumped out of my seat a number of times when he bellowed.  We sang, clapped and some danced.  All throughout I watched as the family stood quietly, heads bowed, tears flowing.  The final trip was to the cemetery.  The sun shone, but it was still very cold.  A deep hole draped with fake green grass waited to claim the coffin.  More singing and the coffin was lowered.  Dirt and flowers were thrown, the green mats removed and the men of the funeral party helped fill the grave while the women sang.  The resulting earthen mound was decorated with clear plastic cool drink bottles filled with water and plastic flowers.  It was over.  As we made our way back to the house, people were arriving with plates of food and huge pots of soup.  I smiled and said, "you gave her a beautiful funeral, well done."  And he did, and what made it so beautiful for me was the heartfelt passion of a man for his wife.  It was real.