Going Home's Such a Lonely Ride (1)

GOING HOME'S SUCH A LONELY RIDE (1)

I am cold: a frozen tundra. But, my eyes are itchy and hot from crying. 

I never planned it this way.

The funeral was in All Saints; a lively church, so the ten-penny brochure claims. It's typical of my sister to bury my father, an atheist brought up by got-the-high-ground Methodists, in an Anglican cemetery. (I know for a fact that, though he died intestate, he wanted to be cremated and have his ashes scattered. Probably in Canada, but I have no real idea. We haven't spoken for fifteen years.)

But, I left her to do it, to struggle through and sort it. My sister arranged the funeral, with the help of her partner and some neighbours of my father's, who felt better placed to put on a benign face once he was dead.

So, it'd be churlish to criticise and, besides, if I pointed out her denominational confusion she'd be the first to laugh and, then, point back that none of it mattered because he was a secular humanist. Or, so he always said, she'd add.

Nine people attended the ceremony, including the vicar and not counting the organist. The latter sounded like he might still be practising as he oozed out the notes of Psalm 23 at a rate, in a key, that left us confused and chorally mute.

We were surprised to see our mother there. She'd dressed nicely for the occassion but, after fish and chips and a half pint of Guiness (once the interment was complete), she forget herself for a while and related tales from when they were still married. (We're talking thirty years ago.) She was full of bitterness and bile. My sister mastered a weary smile.

My wife was too ill to come today. (For many months, now, we've had nothing to say.) When, I get home tonight, I'm going to leave her.

I'll miss my mother as well as my sister.

But, it just seems I must get away.