M Marble and Stone

The funeral is done.

I arrived in Budapest from England at half past twelve and tore across the country in a speeding car to make it in time for 3 pm. I had woken at five in the morning; my partner drove me to Luton in the blue early hours.

I travelled for roughly ten hours, and now we are sitting in the living room with my family, and I cannot sleep: the airport transport car will come for me shortly to take me back, my flight departs at six in the morning, and my partner will collect me from Luton on the other side.

I am running on coffee, four hours of sleep from the previous night, and one hour of fitful napping on the plane.

Exhausted, physically and emotionally, I long only to sleep in peace on the return flight so that I do not have to endure it consciously. I am still terribly frightened of flying, as the total surrender of control unsettles something deep in me.

But for my Nan, I was willing to return to my country for fewer than twenty hours without a second thought.

The funeral was a shock. With the coffin open, I was afforded one last glimpse of this lively woman I once knew. She was so shrunken, so utterly unlike my grandmother.

My family wept around me and expected me to support them emotionally. But I had nothing. Not sorrow, not relief, simply no feelings whatsoever.

I was tired. I was detached.

And I am still uncertain which came first, or why. Had I already let her go? Had I simply cried enough already? Was it shock, or have I become unable to feel after being sad and disappointed for so long?

I felt the scrutinising eyes of others upon me. While my entire family sobbed, I stood there like a marble statue. I felt utterly uncomfortable, as though a performance were expected of me, yet I could not bring myself to deliver it.

It did not come naturally. These old folks believe that deep grief can only be manifested in tears.

Well. I have news for them.

It can be numbness. It can be denial. It can be neutrality. It can arrive the next day, the next year, or the next decade, when the mind finally permits itself to process what has happened.

However, the hardest things are the smallest ones. The fact that I no longer need to call her twice a week, as I so often did. I shall not have to ask her how she is, because physically I will be unable to ask and she will be unable to answer.

Even though in my mind I will still converse with her, through my soul and my intuition, sometimes my earthly mind will not accept that as enough. It will not be enough.

But at least no one can hurt her any more. Not my mother, not the dementia, not the cancer.

She is safe, reunited with her loved ones once more. That is the greatest comfort of all. And she can still look upon us, and guide us through our troubles. Because I know she will feel obliged to do so for as long as we are alive.

And she will be here.