To Lose A Loved One

Tom Smout

Imagine a church, a modern one. The pews are arranged in straight lines, each one occupied by well dressed, sombre faced people. The pulpit is occupied by a man in his late forties, he has a face, accustomed to smiling is now entrapped by sadness. Everyone is sad, set about the sombre task of remembrance.

You are lucky. You only have to imagine it.

The church door has been left open, the cool breeze makes me cold. I shuffle in my seat. I never really knew Derek, he was ill by the time I properly met him, I remember he rarely spoke. Mum said that it hurt him to talk yet somehow he had retained his aura of intelligence, his air of knowledge.

Yet my uncle's eulogy is the first glimpse into his distinguished life. From surgery to crossword Derek was a genius at almost anything. My uncle remembers when he tried to play scrabble against Derek. That was a mistake. Derek used all his letters in the first word.

Then he had a stroke. His mind never really recovered. I barely knew him but I know I will miss him.

We rise for hymns they are obscure and new to me but I try to sing. The man standing in front of me has amazing dreadlocks. They are over two feet long. He looks like he has vines hanging from his head.

We finish the hymns and file out for the procession. The road to the graveyard is small and thin. The hearse almost has trouble going through yet the silence is like air, everywhere, anywhere, indestructible. Even the engine is especially quiet. A bomb could go off across the road and I would barely hear a whisper.

I look at my parents. My mother will not speak for fear of crying. I can see tears in her eyes, bursting to escape. My father shows sadness. I have never seen him this sad before. I have seen dad unhappy, I have seen him distressed, I have seen him lonely. But now he is miserable.

My brother, like me, hangs his head out of respect. He is also not used to wearing formal clothes. He keeps tugging at his shirt cuffs.

The body is lowered into the grave. The vicar throws the dirt and says the words. I feel sorry for him. He has none to comfort him. My uncle and his family stand a little way off. My cousins all look different. Helena is the oldest. She looks strong but I can tell she is deep in sadness. Melissa, the second oldest, is crying. She was close to Derek, the only child there who was. Amelia, the youngest, looks like me, respectful, and sad. I will always remember Derek for his indefinable air of brilliance. Every time I looked into his weary eyes I knew I was talking to everything I aspired to be, brilliant, kind, loved.

Me and my family head back down to the church and our car with the rest of the mourners. It is a huge number of people, even for a funeral. Because I am so small the crowd is tall, a massive black-clad tower. Yet barely a word is spoken. Never have I seen a silent crowd. Never have I witnessed so many so quiet.

We get into the car and we start the journey home. Away from the church, away from the grave, away from England, away from the sorrow, away from the silent and the dead. That's life, I think, the silent, the dead and the remarkable, the people who shine like a candle in the night, like Derek shone for us, but Derek has gone, leaving only bones and memories in his wake.

Maybe I can be a candle, maybe Derek can light my way, maybe my memories of him will never die, maybe they will never silence and just maybe, they will shine. I like to think that we have souls. That the bones that were buried were not Derek in so much as the brain is not the mind. The mind is made of memories, of all we have seen, done and met. Of whom we have loved and why. Of all that we are. Derek was all that he was, and all that he has left us. From bones to children. From theories practices. From beginnings to endings.

We all saw different things in Derek. But none of us will ever see them again.